


Out of Love and Desperation

by EverythingNarrative



Series: World War Etheria [2]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Angst, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon Rewrite, Character Death, Dismemberment, Drug Use, Gen, Language, Logistics, Magic and Science, Military, Nobledark, Permanent Injury, Psychological Trauma, Smoking, Violence, War, War Crimes, Worldbuilding, rational
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26511895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythingNarrative/pseuds/EverythingNarrative
Summary: Adora masters the starlight.Catra gains the favor of Hordak.The war begins in earnest.It's going to be a near thing.We do not hurt those we hold dear out of malice, but—
Relationships: Adora & Bow & Glimmer (She-Ra), Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Adora & Light Hope (She-Ra), Adora & Razz (She-Ra), Adora/Glimmer (She-Ra), Catra & Hordak (She-Ra), Catra & Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra), Catra/Scorpia (She-Ra), George/Lance (She-Ra)
Series: World War Etheria [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923616
Comments: 49
Kudos: 69





	1. Consequences, Opportunities

**Author's Note:**

> CW: This work contains written scenes describing a similar level of violence to what is seen in movies such as Saving Private Ryan, Dunkirk, 1917, Letters from Iwo Jima, Flags of Our Fathers; and TV shows such as Band of Brothers, and Pacific. It also contains similar levels of swearing.

There’s a hearing. There’s always a hearing. One thing is a diplomatic incident that served a real strategic purpose, another is an incursion by enemy special operations into the Horde heartland, to the very Capital itself.

“The council will now call upon Major Catra, of the ninth Special Operations Group.”

Catra stands from her seat, and walks to the lectern in front of the bench. Seven generals sit above her; mostly older men.

“Present,” she says.

The moderator, centrally placed among the seven, though seated slightly offset in relation to the symmetry of the courtroom itself, is a greying Sasquatch. The three stars on his shoulder, and the medal ribbons on his chest indicate distinguished service in the previous conquest.

He reads, in a rumbling voice: "Ten days ago, an enemy action took place in the city of capital, consisting of a special operations force entering the city covertly to stage an attack on the Sorcery Division headquarters, with the apparent objective of rescuing two prisoners of war, and retrieving a captured artifact of presumed First-Ones’ origin.

"Though it is not definitely known how the enemy operatives achieved infiltration, they achieved exfiltration through the sewer system, into the basement of the nearby Portal Physics Division headquarters, where they activated a First-Ones’ artifact known as a ‘waygate’ undergoing active study, and used the resulting space-time anomaly to escape.

“Major, do you agree with this intelligence?”

Catra’s hair stands on end. “I do, general.”

“Please recount your full report, under oath. Starting with the identity of the prisoners and the nature of the captured artifact, and their acquisition.”

Catra swallows, hard. "The prisoners were Princess Glimmer, heiress apparent to the Brightmoon throne, and a soldier serving as a bodyguard to the Princess. The artifact is believed to be a weapon which when utilized by the enemy asset known as ‘She-Ra’ acts as a considerable force multiplier in any engagement.

"The capture of all three happened at the diplomatic Gala held in the Kingdom of Snows; in attendance were myself in the company of Princess Scorpia, Naval Lieutenant, and also attending was the Chancellor and his wife.

"By my orders, a clandestine operation had been put in place, consisting of compromised serving staff and security at the event, allowing myself and the Princess opportunity to violate the truce of neutral grounds, without detection.

"Capturing the bodyguard to use as bait, we utilized prototype assets developed by the Sorcery Division we were able to neutralize the Runestone-related force multiplying component of Princess Glimmer’s combat effectiveness, enabling her capture. The capture of the weapon artifact was desirable but ultimately incidental, and used as a diversion.

“Extraction was achieved using an Air Force rotor-craft. That concludes my report on the events of the diplomatic Gala. Does the council have questions?”

The moderator waits, giving his peers time to state questions. None do. “Continue with the events of ten days ago.”

Catra nods. "My own involvement in the attack started when I received notice that the enemy team had breached a detection perimeter surrounding the basement of the Sorcery Division headquarters. I was asleep at the time, in the officer’s hotel a few blocks away.

"The timeline we have been able to reconstruct is as follows: around two in the morning, the enemy team lands on the roof of the building. They enter the building, and acting on highly accurate intel head straight for the holding location of the body guard, freeing him, and he joins the team for the remainder of the operation.

"The team then descends into the basement of the building, and again head directly for the holding location of the Princess, with one member splitting off and heading for the Director’s office, where the weapon artifact is stored. The larger team overpowers several security personnel guarding the prisoner, while the lone operative interrogates the director and coerces her into giving up the artifact.

"At this point, a massacre of the on-site civilian personnel happens, apparently perpetrated by rogue elements of the on-site staff, for the purposes of information hygiene. The enemy team then enter the sewer system through the emergency exit in the second sub-basement of the building, and subsequently breaches the basement of the Portal Physics Division building by tunneling from an adjacent sewer line.

“This is where I am able to intercept them. Seeing as they represent a superior force, I attempt to stall them through subterfuge tactics and anti-Runestone devices until a relief force can arrive, but they manage to turn the situation to their advantage and subsequently escape. That concludes my report.”

There’s a moment of quiet in the courtroom.

One of the other generals speak up. “Could you describe the team of enemy infiltrators?” He is a satyr with an incredibly bushy dark beard.

“Of course,” Catra says. “They numbered several Runestone Wielders. According to my own memory and comparison to intelligence reports, I’ve deduced we were attacked by Empress Mermista of the Thalassocracy of Salineas, Princess Frosta of the Kingdom of Snows, Princess Cometa of Candila, Princess Spinnerella of Alwyn, Princess Netossa, Prince Peekablue of Apieria, Brightmoon Special Operations asset She-Ra A.K.A. former Warrant Officer Adora, and Princess Perfuma of Plumeria who has now been confirmed to be the source of the creatures designated Southern Whispering Woods Aberrations.”

He continues: “and how exactly did the encounter in the waygate chamber happen?”

Catra bites her lip. “I rigged the waygate with demolition explosives and threatened to blow it up. They called my bluff.”

“You have personal history with former Warrant Officer Adora, do you not?”

“We were raised together, from around the age of seven, mostly in army orphanages. We went into the recruitment programmes together, and attended military academy before enlisting.”

“And why did you enlist, rather than apply for commission straight away?”

“At the encouragement of our mentor Division Director Shadow Weaver, who thought it beneficial for us — or rather, Adora — to understand the plight of common soldiers before assuming command.”

“From eye-witness accounts from the surviving security personnel at the Sorcery Division, it seems to me as if She-Ra was the commanding officer of the raiding party?”

“Correct,” Catra says.

“So is it safe to say that she was the one to, as you put it, ‘call’ your bluff?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you bluff? Why not demolish the waygate?”

Catra hesitates. “The waygate represents too significant a research asset, according to the Chancellor himself. There is no way I would simply demolish it, no matter how significant the capture of the entire raiding party would have been. It was also out of self-preservation. I had to use a dead-man’s switch to discourage them from simply shooting me; without that I would not be at this hearing today.”

“How exactly did She-Ra manage to persuade you into giving up the dead-man’s switch?”

“With respect, General,” Catra says, “what is the purpose of this line of query?”

“I’m asking, _Major_ , to ascertain whether you, operating as a special operations asset, have been compromised by your personal relationship to the defector former Warrant Officer Adora.”

Catra has to calm herself. “I should think my service record indicates otherwise.”

“Your service record is mired in entanglements with She-Ra, Major. And I happen to have hard evidence to it. If you technical gentlemen would —” he gestures.

A group of technical officers wheel out a film projector, and a white screen.

The lights in the courtroom are dimmed, and the projector springs to life.

There on the screen is Catra, in the waygate chamber, and in comes She-Ra and the princesses. There is no sound, but the gestures speak for themselves. Weapons are drawn, Catra threatens to blow up the waygate, there is a flash of light and She-Ra becomes Adora, who then turns the gun on herself. Catra reneges on the threat, and the princesses escape, leaving Catra to have a breakdown of composure.

The film ends. The lights come on again.

“What do you have to say to this, Major?”

Catra bites her tongue. This is not the time for lashing out. “General, do you have siblings?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“Yes. I have an older brother,” the General says.

“If your older brother was… Let’s say, a spy for the enemy, and you found out; would you be conflicted in informing on him, knowing that the punishment for treason is death?”

There’s a pause. “I don’t think there’s any shame in admitting that I would.”

“The weakness of the spirit is just another variable in warfare, which one has to account for,” Catra says, coolly. “I erred in accounting for my own weakness. I can assure you it will not happen again; it was a very informative failure.”

The General considers this. “You make a compelling argument, Major, but I will still have to hold this failure against you. I rest this line of inquiry.”

“Might I?” another on the hearing board says — an admiral, this time. A red-skinned Minotaur. The moderator gives him leave to inquire. "I would like to discuss the case of Director Shadow Weaver’s corruption.

“In particular I have here the testimony of one Doctor-Sorcerer Gedd, working in the Augmentation Medicine Division, who says he was black-mailed into giving you a set of the Mark Four combat enhancements, along with a custom one dictated to him by Shadow Weaver.”

“Yes, I had to go back and get him to remove that,” Catra says. “It was designed to compromise my judgement.”

“He also mentions that you threatened him with bodily harm to get him to do so.”

“Because he refused, on account of Shadow Weaver’s blackmail; I saw no option but to convince him that I was a greater threat.”

“I’ll refrain from mentioning that you could have acted within the bounds of regulation to achieve the same, but did not; itself a point against you,” the general says.

“Yes. It would have prevented me from forming the task-force that led to She-Ra’s initial capture and the first field-test of the anti-Runestone technology,” Catra says.

“Major, the ends does not justify the means.”

“Then what does, General?”

“Pardon?”

“What justifies the means we use to achieve our goals, if not those goals?” Catra says.

The general regards her coolly. “What I mean is, it is not up to someone of your rank to make these decisions. I also hear you were injured in battle with She-Ra despite having had these enhancements done, and had to receive…” he consults his notes. “Kybernetic surgery?”

“Cybernetic, yes. At the hands of the Chancellor’s wife, Princess Entrapta. She needed a live test subject, so I volunteered myself. Thanks to her, I have made a full recovery. I don’t see what this line of inquiry is about?”

“It is about how Shadow Weaver has abused her powers as Director to, among other things, benefit and protect her subordinates, which ultimately resulted in one of these subordinates ordering the slaughter of twenty scientists. I’m asking to find out what she did for _you._ ”

“She was a very bad mother,” Catra says.

“Pardon?”

“She was the legal guardian of myself and former Warrant Officer Adora, and exhibited massive favoritism of Adora, to boot.”

“That is hardly relevant—” the general says.

“I disagree. When Adora turned traitor, Shadow Weaver turned her ambitions onto me, and lacking her literal golden child, tried to help me succeed in bringing Adora back, by any means necessary. Hence the illicit enhancements, pulling favors to get me advanced medical care, and protecting me from the consequences of my actions. Overcompensating for lost time.” It is a lie, and Catra knows. Shadow Weaver has no heart. She saw Catra as an asset, and had poor taste in underlings. Any blame Catra can off-load onto her, is worth it.

“I suppose that summarizes her motives with regards to your case,” the general says. “It is not that this matter is resolved, but I find my line of inquiry unproductive. I rest.”

Now a third general takes the word. A grizzled human with salt-and-pepper hair. “I would like to inquire about the diplomatic incidents, plural, that ultimately led Brightmoon’s Queen to gain undivided support from all the Free Kingdoms.”

“Ask away,” Catra says.

“You attacked the Salinean Royal Yacht.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because according to my sources among the diplomatic corps, the alliance of Salineas and Brightmoon was a forgone conclusion, and it presented an opportunity to capture She-Ra. Which we successfully did.”

“But she escaped.”

“Through no fault of ours, except an incomplete understanding of her abilities.”

“And the Gala?”

“I already had preparations in place to capture at least one princess, and She-Ra’s weapon; the most formidable fire asset available to the Alliance. Had Chancellor Hordak himself not given the go-ahead, I could quite possibly never have put anything into motion.”

“Can anyone corroborate this order?”

“Princess Scorpia, Princess Entrapta.” Scorpia is in the audience.

“I hope you realize that Chancellor Hordak does not hold military rank,” the general says.

“I know, but he does hold diplomatic seniority. In private, we discussed this, while I was receiving treatment. He saw already that She-Ra had turned the room against him, and so decided to speak candidly on the ideology of the Horde, knowing it would cause further enmity; this served as a distraction to allow my plan to come to fruition.”

“I rest,” the general says.

The moderator looks to his left and right. “If there are no more queries, we shall commence with the disciplinary actions. You are to be stripped of your rank as Major, and demoted to Army Captain. Your future special operations will commence with oversight from a supervisor, to be designated at a later date. Further investigations into this may yield further disciplinary action.”

* * *

Scorpia follows Catra out of the hearing. “Hey Wildcat.”

Catra is not in much of a mood for conversation, and it shows. Laid back ears, slumped posture, tail curled around one leg. It’s never been easy for her to admit to her mistakes, but self-preservation won out. Lying under oath is career-ending.

“That could have gone a lot worse, huh?”

“Could have gone a lot better too,” Catra grumbles.

Scorpia puts an arm over Catra’s shoulders. “Look; you were honest, and willing to admit your own mistakes. That has to count for something, right?”

Catra shakes her head.

“Hey, I know a bar in the neighborhood. They have _fried fii~sh?!_ ”

It is the seediest place Catra has ever been to, and she’s been out drinking on enlistment pay.

The barkeep is as ugly as he is of few words, the bottles behind the bar are half-empty and all cheap, the cloth he is polishing glass with looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week.

“Scorpia, how does a sweet girl like you, ever, _ever_ go to a place like this?”

Scorpia giggles. “You know; shore leave!”

Catra most emphatically does _not._ Still, they order a platter of mystery fish in breadcrumbs and a side of fried potatoes; and booze, of course. Whisky with water for Catra, and beer for Scorpia.

“Hey,” Catra says to the barkeep. “The fish better be fresh, okay? I’m not in a mood for you passing me some rancid by-catch.”

“We pass our health inspections, lady,” he says, giving her the finger.

Scorpia leads Catra to a table before she can start a fight.

The fish is surprisingly good. Fresh indeed, and with an especially crisp crust. “When this war is over, I’m gonna start a restaurant and hire that cook,” Catra muses.

“Really? A restaurant? You? What hidden depths.” Catra eats, and Scorpia just looks on. “You know, it’s good to see you out of the house.”

“Mmh,” Catra says.

“Are you ever going to talk to me about Adora?”

“Not unless a council of generals threaten me with a court martial,” Catra says.

Then the bell on the door rings, and a gentleman in a very nice chauffeur’s uniform steps in. He goes to their table. “Captain Catra, Lieutenant Scorpia; your presence is requested.”

Catra finishes her drink turns to the bar. “Hey! Open a tab for this; and get me a paper bag so I can bring this.”

The barkeep takes her name, rank, and home base. Unpaid tabs are serious business in the armed forces; which means a lot of establishments are happy to serve soldiers. Catra gets a bag for her lunch.

Outside, a limo is waiting for them. The chauffeur holds the door for them, and Catra and Scorpia get in.

“Princess Scorpia, Captain Catra; it is good to see you again. Sorry to hear about your demotion.”

Chancellor Hordak sits opposite them, primly dressed.

“Chancellor, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Scorpia asks.

“Why I am glad you asked, and I shall cut to the chase. I am about to go into an endeavor where I will need someone of Captain Catra’s skill. Of course we shall be operating extra-militarily and with some discretion, but I will be able to get yourself and anyone you might need extended leave to work for me.”

“Pay?” Catra asks.

“Double normal military pay for your rank; this applies to anyone else you might want to hire as well. I know you like making friends in high places. Now that Director Shadow Weaver is under supervision, you’re in need of a benefactor, are you not?”

“What do you need me to do?”

“A variety of tasks. Mostly search-and-retrieval of valuable items behind enemy lines or in otherwise hostile territory, and the occasional consultations on matters of Runestone-countermeasures.”

Catra ponders this, and looks at Scorpia.

Scorpia gives her thumbs up. “I’m in if you are, Wildcat.”

“All right. Tell me more,” Catra says to Hordak.

"First, let me says that it was tremendously fortunate that you let the princesses escaped through the waygate. In case you didn’t notice in the moment, we have been monitoring it around the clock, for signs of activity. The data collected in that single event is simply invaluable.

"Second, you may not know this, since you have grown up on Etheria, but the night sky itself is broken. Etheria is not the only planet in the universe, and Sola is not the only sun.

"What happened to this world to leave it so despondent, I know not. How I came here, I can only call an event of cosmic improbability. Outside of this pocket of space, wrapped in on itself, lies a trillion stars and a trillion worlds. All of them together under unified rule.

"I am a clone. A twin brother, if you will, created artificially. A clone of Horde Prime, the emperor of the known universe. I was to be a general in his galactic conquest, but ultimately I had an inborn defect that rendered me lethally allergic to all forms of cybernetic augmentation. Seeing as the cure would be more expensive than replacement, I was sent to die in battle.

"Instead a random glitch led my ship’s portal engine to malfunction, and I was sent here, to Etheria. A backwater planet cut off from the wider cosmos. My health was in jeopardy, so I built the Horde you know, lifting the society to the technological powerhouse you see around you.

"All so I could gain access to the technology necessary to cure my condition. Which with the help of my incredible wife, we have now done. I am no longer in immediate danger of lethal medical complications, which frees me up to do things like take rides in my limousine, and work towards my actual end goal.

"We need to recreate the circumstances that led me to Etheria, opening a portal to the _outside_ of Etheria’s despondency, and send a message to Horde Prime, so that he may come and claim Etheria.

“Of course, this will do us no good if we are crushed by the Alliance first. So as an instrument in this plan, we need to win; and the surest way is to level the playing field by striking at the principal asset of the Alliance, the Runestone Wielders. And that is your speciality.”

Catra leans back with a smile. “Well then; what are we waiting for? Let’s get to work.”


	2. Recent Developments, Fresh Scars

Castaspella throws open the curtains.

Glimmer winces, and turns over.

“Rise and shine, my dear Niece.” She gestures, and the blanket it rudely thrown off Glimmer by the invisible force of Castaspella’s personal servant spirit.

Glimmer sits up. “What are you doing?” she says quietly.

“Getting you out of bed,” Casta says, and starts opening the window. The temperature outside is frigid. Mid-winter, at altitude. “Get dressed, you’ll freeze.”

Glimmer grumbles, but complies. “Why?”

“Because, you have been bedridden for two weeks, and you should get out of your room.”

Glimmer turns away, putting her legs over the side of the bed, sitting up facing away from her aunt.

Castaspella comes around the bed, and kneels down. “Glimmer dear. I know it hurts. I know you feel as if hope has left your life. I know it because I have felt the same, many times before. I have seen it happen; to Netossa… To your father. And in my experience, there is only one cure.”

“What?”

“To accept that this is how things are now, and get moving. Your connection to the Moonstone may be absent for the time being. It may come back, it may not. But you are still Glimmer of Brightmoon; you are still that same smart, brave girl, you are still a Commandant in your mother’s armies. You have friends who love you.”

Glimmer looks at her. “My friends aren’t here.”

“No. But that does not lessen their love. In fact, I know it pains them to not be with you. Adora is probably out there, teaching stuffy aristocrats and old army men about how the Horde does things, and would much rather be here in bed, with you. And Bow is at his fathers’ library, trying to find some old magic that might restore you — you know how much greater his love is for the woods than old books; he is doing that for you.”

Glimmer nods.

Castaspella stands with a flourish. “And _I_ have something for _you_ to do.”

“What?”

“Attend my class. For too long you have let your sorcery talent lie fallow, dear Niece. I know you have it; and if you have inherited half of what my brother could do, then it is almost criminal for you not to train it.”

Glimmer looks at her hand. The absence of her blink feels like a missing limb. “Sure. Why not.”

At the end of the day, true enough, Glimmer is feeling better. Just a little.

* * *

Adora’s classes have moved in-doors, thankfully. One of the Merchant’s Guild has offered to charge the army through the nose for the use of their main hall on alternating days. She has commissioned a dark-red coat of gambeson, to remind everyone where she’s from and why she knows what she knows.

She has also been inducted officially into the Brightmoon military, and given the rank of Chief Training Officer — unearned, in her opinion.

She’s wiping down the slate board, when a boy comes running. A military runner, by the moon on his scarf. “Ma’am, message for you, from Lead Ranger Bow.” He hands her a letter.

Adora tips him a full shilling, and breaks the wax seal.

> I FOUND A THING ABOUT SHE RA
> 
> AM AT EAST RANGER COMPOUND
> 
> — BOW

It is written in large blocky letters. There’s even a little symbol drawn next to each line: the diadem she usually wears, and a stylized version of the shield Cometa made; the crescent moon crossed with a bundle of arrows, the symbol of the rangers; and a heart and a bow.

She’s out the door in a heartbeat, leaving behind the auditorium in less than optimal condition, which some janitor will likely chew her out on later.

Out in the street she makes use of her newest trick. _Horse._

Her diadem leaps off her brow, and morphs grotesquely into a silver steed. It’s not true-to-life. It’s not even a statue of a horse, with a silver finish. The head is a wedge-shape, with chains for reins. The neck is segmented. The body is a spinal strut, supporting shoulder and hip joints on cross beams; the saddle being the only ergonomic or organic shape on the animal. The legs are articulated, but by pistons and pulleys.

She gallops on her tireless construct, through the city, drawing stares. But since the city is made for horse traffic, it is substantially safer than a motorbike. Adora tried that once. Never again.

The ranger guarding the gate at the compound lets her through at the show of the emblem of her rank. “Any idea where Lead Ranger Bow is?”

“Armory, ma’am.”

Of course he is in the armory.

The armory is other and more than a room to store weapons and armor, this is true for every military organization. The armory is often the nexus for all equipment supply, excepting food, clothes, medical, and vehicular.

In particular, Bow would be called a specialist in the Horde. He is a genuine polymath with a major in everything and a minor in killing people with pre-gunpowder projectile weapons.

Today, Adora finds him buries in a Sorcery manual, trying to adopt a new tracking spell to his design of portable equipment. If he had any talent for sorcery, Castaspella would probably have taken him as a personal apprentice.

“Hello Bow,” Adora says. “I got your note.”

“Oh!” Bow stands up from the workbench. “I hope it wasn’t too hard to read.”

“It’s not like I can’t _read._ But yeah, it helped. Thanks for the consideration. What do you have for me?”

Bow hurries over to a pile of books and digs out a _tome_ of a book. It is old, it is dusty, it is well-preserved at the hands of the past and present custodians of the Hidden Library, but it is still fragile. He opens it and turns the pages delicately to the reference he has bookmarked.

It’s not in any writing Adora knows to read.

“So, this is a history written by — you know, never mind who, he was a minor historian who died before Queen Angella’s reign. But he details a pervasive myth, that is supported by multiple oral traditions, from Brightmoon, Plumeria, and even some of the towns that are now in the Hordelands.”

“Okay, so a myth that has a ring of truth to it?” Adora says.

"It’s about She-Ra. Particularly that Plumeria was once beset by a terrible blight; that the wielder of the Heartblossom had lost his — or her, that’s unclear — connection to the Runestone and the land, and that the people had fallen under a plague. The resolution is _intriguing._

“She-Ra performs a miracle, which restores the land, heals the people, and reconnects the wielder to their Runestone.”

Adora nods along. “She-Ra might be able to help Glimmer, is what you’re saying.”

“Yeah. I know you’ve been training and learning a lot with She-Ra and exploring what you can do, but remember when you first told us about Shadow Weaver, and said you were rubbish at sorcery?” Bow says.

“Yeah? Are you saying I should go to Mystacor and learn sorcery?”

“No, but I’m saying, I don’t think we know the full extent of She-Ra’s abilities. From what I know about sorcery, it’s not for you. Maybe as a last resort.”

Adora’s diadem leaps into her hand as a knife. She twirls it, thinking. “Oh man,” she says. “Oh man!”

“What?”

“Thaymor!”

“Adora, I don’t follow.”

“We got so caught up in the Horde attack, and my defection, and then the trip to Salineas, that we _forgot!_ ”

Bow patiently waits for Adora to get to the point.

“The _ruins,_ Bow. The riddle on the door? The strange glowy lady?”

Bow pales a little. “Oh, right. Oh _man!_ I can’t believe we _forgot!_ That place had She-Ra written all over it! There was a giant mural dedicated to _you!_ ”

“We gotta go there. Right away!”

Bow hesitates. “Last time, we got captured there and only escaped by Glimmer’s powers. She can’t bail us out if that happens.”

Adora’s enthusiasm falters. “Oh. Right. I’ll go, then. Alone.”

“Adora—”

“Bow, that place is some sort of shrine dedicated to She-Ra. When we went there, it didn’t try to kill us; well not intentionally, anyway. If it does that again, I’ll just blow the door down.”

“Well, that’s a good point, but shouldn’t I come, then?”

“No. If something happens to me, you have to be there for Glimmer. And your work on finding myths about She-Ra has already paid off; you’re the only one who can do that. I can’t risk you.”

Bow crosses his arms. It stings, but he is honest enough with himself to know that situations of mortal peril for him, might be merely inconvenient to She-Ra.

“Sorry,” Adora says.

“No, you’re right. I’m a Ranger, not a soldier. I’m all sneaky and bookish and clever solutions. You’re the one who punches battleships and plans heists deep behind enemy lines. Take care of yourself out there, I’ll get one of the cadets to show you the way.”

“You’re not guiding me there yourself?”

“Sorry, I have a meeting to attend. Ranger business; we need to incorporate better with the army, to help them in the Whispering Woods.”

Adora grimaces. Inter-organizational coordination is a _nightmare._ “Oh, and can you tell people where I’ve gone if anyone asks?”

“Of course.”

* * *

The cadet is a young satyr woman, and the trip is one suited to her junior rank. There’s a foot trail into the woods, which stretches until Adora spots the rock formation in the distance.

The cadet heads back, and Adora transforms into She-Ra. It’s a short trek through the underbrush, made shorter by a foot of extra legs.

She arrives at that very same courtyard and ruined colonnade carved directly into the cliff.

The gate is the same as it ever was, and responds to the same password.

“Eternia.”

The hallway is the same. Adora stops where her boot scuffed the wall when Glimmer picked her up by the collar. That girl is strong, and Adora will never admit just how much she is all for it.

The mural chamber is the same. “She-Ra.”

The same female figure appears, draped in a cloak, transparent like thin smoke.

“`Administrator detected: Welcome She-Ra. Authorized. What is your query?`”

“All right,” Adora mutters to herself, “time to get some answers. What is this place?”

“`This location is the Crystal Palace.`”

Nothing. Just a name. “And what is the Crystal Palace?”

“`The Crystal Palace is an installation located in the Whispering Forest.`”

Adora thinks of an old joke she saw in a play once, on an outing with the military academy. An actor walked onto the stage with a carrot in one hand and a pony led by the other, and was asked what strangeness he had brought in, to which he replied, bewildered: a carrot?

Whatever this entity is, it is dense as lead. _I’ll just treat it like a particularly unhelpful bureaucrat,_ Adora thinks.

“What is the purpose of the Crystal Palace?”

“`It is a base of operations for She-Ra.`”

“Can… Can I get a tour?”

“`Query not understood.`”

“What can you tell me about the Crystal Castle?”

“`The Crystal Palace is an installation located in the Whispering Forest. It is a base of operations for She-Ra.`”

Right. Dense as lead.

“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“`Query not understood.`”

Adora sits down, rubbing her temples.

* * *

Working with Entrapta is a pain in the arse.

The older woman — somewhere in her thirties, according to Catra’s estimates — behaves with the maturity of someone a few years her junior.

She speaks quickly, cackles maniacally, refuses to eat food that isn’t ‘tiny,’ and obsesses over any and all things to do with technology in general and the First-Ones in particular. Asking her a question gets you a stream of incomprehensible jargon, and asking her to clarify begets you mockery.

They need First-Ones’ tech to reverse-engineer. They need intact First-Ones’ devices to use. They need First-Ones’ records to study.

The portal is going to need insurmountable amounts of energy, and while Hordak knows how to harness the power of ancient glowing metals in gigantic kettles of doom, the Horde has yet to actually locate a vein of the stuff. He also knows how to create a miniature sol, but needs more design work, requiring calculation power exceeding the ‘rudimentary electronic computers’ — as he calls them — that are the latest efforts of the Artillery Division’s need to calculate ballistic trajectories.

So Catra has been given a shopping list, and a map of locations with unusual energy signatures, which are known not to be death-traps.

And one of the locations happens to be in the Whispering Woods, which is only two hours of plane travel away.

So Catra has gone, with Scorpia and Lonnie, and investigated and found the ruined courtyard with the mysterious door, and canvassed the area for any other structures or ruins, and meticulously detailed their findings, especially the writing on the door which Entrapta claims to be able to partially decode, and then camped out there for two days to see if anything would change.

Which it did not.

But then, on the third day, right as Catra is about to head back and requisition an excavation team and two hundred crates of dynamite, a miracle happens.

Friggin’ She-Ra just comes strolling in, not a care in the world. Speaks a password to the door, which opens readily, and heads inside.

“I’m going in after her. If I’m not back by tomorrow, assume I’m trapped and start using dynamite.”

“Catra _wait!_ ” is all Scorpia manages.

Catra leaps out from their cover and sprints on all fours to the gate, slipping in-between the heavy sections of moving metal with only a hair to spare.

From there, she simply follows She-Ra, down the corridor, to a great big chamber with a mural _of She-Ra,_ where she proceeds to have an agonizingly long exercise in frustration of a conversation, with some kind of fake person.

All while Catra sits there, behind a pillar, hoping desperately that the gigantic idiot Adora, will happen upon the correct phrase to make this fake and even greater idiot say something useful.

Catra peeks around the pillar, at She-Ra, mulling over something, sitting down on a fallen pillar.

“ _Oh!_ ” she says. “ _I remember now._ ” She turns to the gatekeeper spirit: “ _I want to speak to Light Hope._ ”

“`Light Hope.`”

“ _Yes, Light Hope! That’s her name, isn’t it?_ ”

“`Light Hope... Is here.`”

“ _Can I talk to her?_ ”

“`You are not permitted to speak with Ligth Hope.`”

“ _Why?!_ ”

“`Unauthorized interlocutor.`”

“ _What does that mean?_ ”

“`Query not understood.`”

She-Ra yells in frustration.

Catra does understand. It means this thing knows she’s here. She bumps her head against the pillar. There is no way out of this one. The room has one entrance, which they both came through, and a number of gates, firmly shut.

She is carrying a bottle of water, and a few of the new MRE-rations, but by tomorrow someone is going to blow a hole in this place with dynamite. If that can even be done.

“Hey! Adora!” she calls out. The room is full of echoes.

“ _Catra?!_ ”

There’s the unmistakable sound of a weapon being brought to bear.

“Guilty as charged.”

“ _What the_ fuck _are you doing here?_ ”

“You know what? I don’t _know._ Would you believe I’ve been demoted?” Catra says. “Today, I’m off following the bullshit orders of some guy who’s never seen combat, for reasons inscrutable to me.”

Keep her talking. Build rapport. She can still win this.

* * *

“You’ve been _demoted?_ ” Adora asks. “Why?!”

Adora is already moving. In one hand, Cometa’s shield, in the other, a machine pistol. The acoustics properties of the room are terrible, and it is impossible to pin-point where Catra is.

So Adora moves, listening hard, and keeps talking.

“ _Guilt by association. Shadow Weaver’s corruption got out in the light. Apparently it was news to someone._ ”

“Yeah, who would have thought the Evil Dark Power-Hungry Sorceress was evil?!”

Catra laughs. Was that behind that column over yonder, or the one next to it?

“ _Hey. I don’t wanna fight. Really. Will you put the gun away if I come out? For old time’s sake?_ ”

That’s an easy one, considering there is no ‘putting away’ her gun. And even if Catra has a Runestone suppressor on hand, all it means is she’ll be reduced to the Shield, which is still bulletproof — and _returns when thrown._

“Sure,” Adora says, and dissolves her gun.

Catra comes out, from behind a column across the room, which Adora was already starting to suspect.

“So,” Catra says, coming up to Adora, hands in pockets.

Adora crosses her arms. “That better not be a gun in your pocket.”

Catra giggles, and shows empty palms. “Ad, if I was going to kill you, I would have shot you while you were talking to that thing —” she jabs a thumb at the hologram.

Good point. “So,” Adora says.

“So. Man, it’s really weird that you’re eight feet tall, can you… Not?” There’s not a shred of malice in her voice as she says this.

“Oh, sorry,” Adora says and reverts to her normal self.

“How have you been holding up?” Catra asks.

“Oh, I’m just trying to help my _girlfriend._ Who can’t use her Princess’ Runestone powers anymore. Because of you. I’m also teaching every commander who cares to listen how to defeat the Horde. You?”

“Oh, you know, I’ve left the army on extended leave to work privately in techno-archaeology,” Catra says. “You’re dating the sparkly one?”

“Her name is Glimmer, not ‘the sparkly one,’ I’ll have you know.”

“Hey, I’m not judging. I’m dating too.” Catra says.

Adora grins, surprised but delighted. “Oh? Anyone I know? It’s not Lonnie, is it?!”

“Ew, no. Lonnie? What the hell, Ad. No; her name is Scorpia, she’s navy.”

“Good,” Adora says. “Very good; congratulations. Wait. _The Horde Princess?_ ”

“Yeah. Laugh about it.”

Adora giggles, and gives a little hop. “Cat, we’re both dating royalty, how did _that_ happen?”

This is in fact the first time they’ve had time to talk. They giggle a little at this coincidence — it is pretty funny.

“Can I ask you something?” Adora says.

“Can I stop you?” Catra replies.

“Let’s do one for one.”

Catra blinks. “That sleepover question game? Sure. Why not. You start.”

“The spine thing at the ball?”

“Still got it. You dislocated one of my vertebra and paralyzed my tail; you threw me at the railing on the ship. Remember that?”

“Oh, yeah, I threw you pretty hard. I didn’t really know my own strength as I do now.”

“Yeah, no shit. Like, I got some magic ’tats —” she hikes up a sleeve and runs a hand against the fur on her forearm, showing the intricate marks “— that make me stronger, faster, and hardier, but not enough apparently. So I offered myself up to Princess Entrapta who needed a test subject.”

“I’m not going to say I’m sorry. You did break my nose.”

“Yeah; same-same,” Catra says. “How did you escape the manacles back then? You escaped by _not_ being She-Ra, but then you had them on again when you used She-Ra again, and you know; broke my spine.” She says it nonchalantly, and secretly takes immense amusement from how Adora’s eye twitches.

“Really, the manacles is what you?— Whatever. Hacksaw, metal file, patience, and elbow grease.”

“Yeah okay, wow, I could have told myself.”


	3. Questions, Answers

Catra turns to the hologram. “So, I think I know why this glowing idiot is stopping you.”

“Pray tell.”

“Ask it again.”

Adora turns to the hologram gatekeeper. “I want to see Light Hope.”

“`You are not allowed to see Ligth Hope.`”

“Why?”

“`Unauthorized interlocutor.`”

Adora gestures at the hologram, looking at Catra.

“She means me,” Catra says.

Adora turns to the hologram. “Please identify the unauthorized interlocutor.”

The hologram flickers, and points. At Catra.

“See?”

“Yeah, okay,” Adora says. “Thanks.” She turns to the hologram. “Let me try something. Uh— By my authority as administrator ‘She-Ra’ I hereby grant authorization — temporary authorization — to the interlocutor, to hear details about and meet, Light Hope.”

“`Processing. New user. Please identify yourself.`” It flickers to face Catra.

“Catra.”

“`Username Catra. Temporary authorization to view classifed file Ligth Hope, granted.`”

“Great,” Adora says. “Can we see Light Hope now?”

“`To meet Light Hope, follow the line in the floor.`”

A glowing line in the floor lights up, leading from the podium, to a door over yonder in the wall.

“Shall we?” Adora asks.

“Sure. It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

* * *

The door leads to a hallway, which leads to an elevator. Which leads to a _very_ long elevator ride.

“What’s it like?” Catra asks.

“Hm?”

“Being She-Ra. What’s it like?”

“I don’t know. Tall? I can see really well in crowds. It’s also… Comfortable. No little pains and kinks, and all my injuries heal really fast. But— it’s also alien. I feel like a different person. Not just a different body. I think about things different. Calmer under pressure, but also I tend to solve problems with more force. Both physical, but also like, the charisma that comes with being eight feet tall.”

“Huh. Your turn.”

“Do you love Scorpia?” Adora asks.

“Woof, okay. Just throw me the heavy stuff. Ad, we’re dating. We go to seedy bars to eat improbably good fried fish, and then occasionally we get drunk and go to her mansion to fuck on silk sheets. Either of us could die tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

“What, do you love Glimmer? Are you going to be the Princess Consort of Brightmoon one day?”

Adora smiles, blushing. “A little, yeah. I didn’t even know what it was like, before… Well, we haven’t had a lot of time together, to just be us. And she’s been really down lately, not being able to use her powers. I think about her a lot.”

Catra looks away.

“What happened after you let us go in the waygate chamber?”

“I did _not_ let you go. You forced my hand.”

“But what happened afterwards?”

“I got demoted to Captain again. Then I got a job offer for double pay, doing things less likely to get me killed. I’m still angry about that stunt you pulled.”

“Why?” Adora asks.

“Because you’re always like that. Always throwing your own life away for others. By now, I know you’re not coming back home; but at least try not to get killed okay? For my sake? And now you owe me two.”

“Sorry.”

“Who is this Light Hope we’re going to meet?” Catra asks.

“No idea. I saw her in a dream when I first bonded to She-Ra’s Weapon. She’s a person, I think. I hope.”

“And what are you hoping to get from her?”

“I need to understand She-Ra’s power better. There’s a ton of legends about what I can supposedly do, but so far all I have is guns and muscles.”

“Fair enough.”

“What are you here for?” Adora asks.

“Anything that isn’t nailed down, really. No— I’m just scouting.”

“Well, this is my place, so I’m afraid I can’t let you have anything. Especially not if you’re going to take it back to the Horde.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t look like there _is_ anything. Not even a utility closet.”

“`Category two unreality field in area ahead, beware risk of hallucinagenesis, attend relevant safety course for more information,`” a voice informs them, and then the elevator comes to a stop.

“What’s that about?” Catra asks.

Adora shrugs. “Sounds ominous.”

* * *

The outside of the elevator is pitch black.

“This was not what I was expecting,” Catra says. “But cool. A room of infinite darkness.”

“ _Light Hope?!_ ” Adora calls out. She conjures a silver flashlight, but seemingly the darkness is not a result of lacking illumination, but the very surfaces of the room being light absorbent.

“Ad, the elevator is gone,” Catra says.

“Yeah, let’s press on.” Adora turns the flashlight up to almost blindingly bright. They can barely see the floor they are walking on.

“You’re not worried?”

“No,” Adora says. “People don’t build dungeons full of death traps. Robust, usable, beautiful; the universal principles of architecture.”

“And the First-Ones adhered to those?” Catra asks snidely.

“They were people. I think.”

“Okay. Your turn.”

“Hm?”

“To ask a question?”

“Oh. Um. What’s with the gloves and boots?”

Catra is wearing not only her gloves, but also boots fit for human plantigrade feet; without the normal adaptations for hemi-digitigrade feliform feet — no one-inch heel and not extra-wide.

“Oh. It’s a Scorpioni thing. Having slimmer fingers helps with shooting and paperwork, and good hiking boots are way cheaper in human-standard. It’s actually not the boot itself, I’m wearing a sock underneath.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah.”

“Wait, do you feel that?”

“Maybe?”

* * *

_“Adora!”_

_“Catra! Are you okay?”_

_Blood-smeared shirt-sleeve, tear-wet cheeks._

_“Do you think it’s broken?”_

_Adora gently touch Catra’s nose. She winces, but doesn’t cry out._

_“I think it’s just a bleed. What happened?”_

_“I got in a fight with Octavia.”_

_“The naval strategy teacher? Why?!”_

_“She asked why I hung around a spoiled runt like you.”_

_“And then what?”_

_“Then she punched me in the face.”_

_“What did you do to her?”_

_“I only kicked her in the shin!”_

_“Catra, I can’t help you stay out of trouble if I don’t know what you did.”_

_“All right! She grabbed me by the collar and I scratched her in the face. Then she punched me, and ran off to the infirmary.”_

_Catra turns away._

_“Hey. Thanks for standing up for me.”_

_“Are you going to tell Shadow Weaver?”_

_“Oh, I’m going to tell everyone!”_

_“Adora!”_

_“I’m going to tell everyone that Big Bad Chief-Lieutenant Octavia lost a fight to a twelve-year-old.”_

_Someone yells in the distance: “Cadet Catra!”_

_Adora grabs Catra’s hand, and they run._

* * *

Adora slows to a halt. She turns and looks at Catra.

Catra looks from Adora, to her hand in Adora’s. A little too quick, she withdraws her hand.

“Okay, what the _fuck_ was that?” Catra asks.

“I have _no_ idea.”

“Whatever it was: _deja vu,_ eat your heart out.”

They are out of the darkness. The corridors of the military academy has given way to crystal corridors, same as before. They walk on.

“It wasn’t all bad, was it?” Catra asks. “Growing up in the Fright Zone?”

“With you? No. I’ve… I’ve realized some things about the way Shadow Weaver treated us. But no, there were good times. More of them than the bad times, even. Especially because of you.”

Catra doesn’t have anything to say to that.

“Hey,” Adora continues. “I miss you too.”

Catra sputters. “I _don’t_ miss you.” She slaps Adora on the shoulder with the back of her hand.

Adora giggles. “Admit it, Cat. I’m your _vewwy bwuest fwiend!_ ”

“Shut up!” Catra squeals.

They laugh, together.

“Why didn’t you come to the Sorcery Division and attempt to stop us there?” Adora asks.

“And help Shadow Weaver? If I’d succeeded, she’d take the credit, and if I failed, she’d blame me.”

“Oh.”

“Were you really going to shoot yourself?” Catra asks.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t sure it would work, even though Peekablue said so.”

“You don’t have very much faith in me, do you?”

“Can you blame me?”

“Not really, no,” Catra says. “Did you ever regret it? Defecting?”

Adora stops, and turns to Catra. “Of course I do. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing. The Horde is… Evil. Hurting the innocent, lying to us, breaking the rules they swear to uphold… I can’t stand for that.”

Catra quietly notes that those are all things she has done too.

* * *

_“Four marking strikes constitutes a win.”_

_Adora and Catra walk past each other. Staves in hand. Barefoot on the springy wooden floor._

_“Remember, cadets. This is an exercise in form. Not a fight. Keep it clean.”_

_They take up stance opposite one another._

_Catra takes a two-handed sword grip._

_Adora, a fool’s guard._

_The tension rises to a breaking point._

_Catra moves, marking Adora’s pate uncontested._

_“One-zero.”_

_Adora swipes Catra’s staff aside lighting fast and then marks her pate._

_“One-one.”_

_Catra leaps back, taking a wide defensive grip. Adora takes a side-stance sheathed sword grip._

_Catra moves first, again, with a simple swing, connecting lightly to Adora’s flank._

_“Two-one.”_

_“Concentrate, Adora,” Catra teases, falling back._

_This time they both move simultaneously. Staves crossing in a quick flurry of strikes, parries, counters, feints, and counter-feints. Adora’s staff ends up in Catra’s face._

_“Two-two.”_

_“Watch, don’t banter,” Adora warns playfully._

_And then they begin trading blows in earnest._

* * *

Adora realizes she’s holding a silver staff; and with it, Catra in a leg-lock. She’s on her back, a matching staff in hand.

“Oh,” Adora says. The staves disappear in a liquid flash of silver, becoming a bracelet. She’s quickly on her feet, and helps Catra up.

They are both keenly aware of just how physical that was.

And so they press on. The corridor gives way to a gigantic vertical shaft, with a walkway around the edge.

At the other side of the shaft, they enter a corridor with concrete walls.

“What—”

* * *

_The cargo elevator doors open._

_“What’s it like being the worlds slowest lock-picker?” Catra says._

_“Hey, I’ve only been at it for a week. I’m not cool like you, street kid.” They exit. “This is the lowest it’ll go,” Adora continues._

_“Look!” Catra says and points. The wide gate is partially open, and beyond it sits an irregular pillar of red stone so dark it might be black._

_“Oh we are definitely not allowed in there.”_

_They enter. The black garnet chamber is enormous and filled with machinery clustered around the stone itself. The girls take a lap around, to look. “Don’t touch anything,” Catra cautions. “It might be electrical or something.”_

_Adora wisely heeds her advice._

_Then they hear a noise and dive for cover._

_Shadow Weaver comes in, walking slowly, breathing heavily. Darkness seems to ooze from her, soaking into her robes, dripping onto the floor._

_She shambles to a device installed next to the crystal, but decides against using it, instead placing her hand on the crystal itself. Power leaps from it, to her, and she growls in pain, and the growl becomes an agonized scream._

_Falling away from the crystal, Shadow Weaver struggles to her feet, and walks, now apparently rejuvenated, to a stone washbasin, and takes off her mask._

_Under it is a horrific visage. Greyed skin, deep scars, open sores. Her eyes themselves are unnatural, with cross-shaped pupils in red irises._

_Adora makes a noise._

_Shadow Weaver lashes out, drowning the room in silent darkness._

_“Adora, get out. Catra, you stay.”_ A glowing doorway opens in the darkness.

_Catra backs up towards it._

_“I said come here.”_

_A red aura engulfs Catra, and against her will she walks over to Shadow Weaver._

_“What do you think you’re doing here?”_

_“We were just playing—”_

_Shadow Weaver looms over the cat girl. “Insolent child. I’ve come to expect such disgraceful behavior from you; but I will not allow you to drag Adora down as well.”_

_“Shadow Weaver, it wasn’t her fault,” Adora cries out, “it was me who picked the lock on the cargo elevator!”_

_Shadow Weaver ignores her and continues: “You have never been anymore than a nuisance to me; I have kept you around for this long because Adora was fond of you, but if you ever do anything to jeopardize her future… I will dispose of you—”_

_Adora jumps in front. “No! Don’t hurt her!”_

_Shadow Weaver backhands Adora hard enough to send the girl tumbling._

_“I will mete out punishment as I see fit,” she says, then slowly glides over to Adora, helping the girl to her feet. With manipulative tenderness, she caresses Adora’s hurting cheek. “Adora, my love, you must do a better job of keeping her under control. Do not let something like this happen again — this chamber is not off-limits because I don’t want you to have fun; it is dangerous in here.”_

_The darkness fades, and Adora picks Catra up off the floor where she fell when Shadow Weaver relased her paralysis spell, and they walk out, hand in hand._

* * *

Once more, Catra pulls her hand away. “You always had to play the hero, didn’t you?”

“I was only trying to protect you!”

“You _never_ protected me! Not in any way that would put you on her bad side! Admit it — you loved being her favorite.”

“That is _not_ true, and you _know it._ ”

“When you left, I had to bust my ass to get on her good side, so she wouldn’t take everything out on me! Where were you to protect me then?!”

“You didn’t have to stay! I told you why I left; I know you’re not some kind of deranged monster who inflicts suffering for sport; you could have come with me!”

“And I’m just supposed to follow you everywhere?”

“What’s the shame in following your best friend?!”

Catra crosses her arms. “I don’t _want_ to leave; what don’t you understand about that. Without you there, I could handle Shadow Weaver without you getting in my way. I got what I _wanted_ the moment you were gone, and I’m a better officer than you would have ever been.”

Adora stumbles in her train of though. “I— I thought you never cared about that sort of thing.”

“I was lying, you idiot.” She turns, and walks away, down the rounded walkway circumscribing the massive shaft.

“Catra, wait—” Adora says.

Catra stops, looking over her shoulder. “Why do you think I let you leave? Why do you think I just accepted that demotion? Why do you think I changed careers? I’m done trying to capture you; I’m done trying to capture anyone who might mean anything to you. I _don’t want to see you anymore._ ”

* * *

_It’s late at night, in the orphanage dormitory._

_Catra is sitting one her bunk. Today has been a good day, and then it got a lot worse._

_Adora was her best friend, or so she thought. Her only friend. They met the day before yesterday, over in mid-town. Yesterday, Adora came to find her in the company of a very nice satyr woman, and told her they were going to live at the orphanage together._

_But today, Catra’s first day here, a lady with a stange mask came to get Adora. Of course such a perfect girl as Adora would get adopted. So that was that._

_She was off the streets, for now, but who knows how long it would be until the orderlies kicked her back out._

_Someone comes in, and Catra, not wanting anyone to know she’s a crybaby, scurries under her bed to hide._

_That someone comes right up to her bunk, and lies down flat. Catra hisses at them._

_“Catra it’s me.”_

_“Adora?”_

_“Why are you hiding?”_

_Catra crawls out._

_“I—” Catra sobs, “I thought you had been adopted.”_

_“What? No! Shadow Weaver isn’t my mom or anything. Well, she is, but I live here at the orphanage because she’s too busy to take care of me.”_

_“So you’re not going away?”_

_“No! And today, I got Shadow Weaver to do some paperwork, so now she’s your mom too! So we’ll stay together!”_

_“Forever?”_

_“Until the end of the world!”_

_“You promise?”_

_Adora clasps her arm in a warrior’s handshake. “I promise.”_

* * *

Adora is holding Catra’s hand.

“Catra, please, just listen to me.”

Catra pulls her off balance, and with her augmented strength, throws her off the walkway, into the pit.

Adora scrabbles for purchase, suddenly finding herself upside down, and manages to catch the railing with one hand. She quickly grabs hold with the other too. “Catra! What are you doing?!”

Catra steps up to the railing. “You always were the one thing holding me back. Every hero needs a side-kick, right?”

“Catra, no; that’s not how it was! You were my only friend too!”

Catra laughs, and it is a callous laugh. “You know… Sometimes I wonder how far I would be by now, if I had gotten rid of you sooner.”

Catra puts her foot through the bannisters, and kicks Adora into the pit below.


	4. Light, Hope

Adora falls, but not very far. It’s reflexive for her to conjure a grappling hook harness and latch it to the hand-rail.

Arresting her fall is easy. It’s another thing to muster the motivation to climb back up.

She stays there, hanging over a truly tremendous fall, for a lot longer than she should.

Her stomach hurts. Not so much from the hard kick, as from the summary rejection. Gone is any hope — for the moment — that Catra can be brought over to her side.

Adora wipes her eyes. Now is not the time to mourn the loss of a friend. Now is the time to press on.

She engages the silver winch in the harness, and starts lowering herself. The cable is thin and strong, and the wire can stretch to over a mile; she tested how much rope she could make a few weeks ago, and the answer is ‘enough.’

The shaft itself is enormous, enormously deep, and deathly quiet.

A few hundred feet down is another walkway.

And on it, stands a figure in blue.

“`Hello, She-Ra.`”

Adora stops her descent.

The figure looks familiar. Dressed much like the holographic gate-guardian upstairs, but… Real. Physical. Her skin is deep blue, her eyes are glowing, her cloak is transparent, and her modesty is preserved by a dress with a very low neckline, revealing her chest as simply a black void full of pinpricks of light.

“`Please, come onto stable ground.`”

She holds out a hand, and a walkway appears, crossing the shaft, under Adora.

Adora tentatively lowers herself onto it, and the harness, wire, and hook vanish. “Who are you?”

“`I am Light Hope.`”

“Oh. I was expecting… Someone less solid?”

“`Yes. I must inform you that I am not a real person. This appearance is a fabrication, for the purpose of social interaction, and I can only maintain it in this general area, under the category two unreality field.`”

“And outside it?”

“`Outside it, I am limited to the holographic projectors, like you have seen in the entry-hall. Please, follow me. You must have questions.`”

“Yeah.”

Light Hope leads her into a hallway, and immediately the light disappears, leaving them in total darkness. “`Do not be alarmed. Due to the unreality field, the architecture is malleable. You may have experienced reified hallucinations on the way down.`”

“Oh, yeah. If a ‘reified hallucination’ is what I think it is; lots.”

Around them, a pleasantly lit room manifests. The walls are still the crystalline panels, but the furnishing consists of ergonomic chairs, and a table. One the table sits a carafe of water and a glass, and at the end of it, a vase full of flowers.

“`Please. Sit. We have much to discuss.`”

Adora takes a seat.

“`Adora, I have been waiting for you, since you were an infant.`”

“Oh-kay, I don’t wanna be rude, but who _are_ you?”

“`I am Light Hope. I am an auxiliary facilitator of Etheria's cthonic infrastucture, and the primary facilitator of the Crystal Castle and She-Ra project. I am a personality construct created by those you would call the 'First-Ones' in order to oversee maintenance protocols, and provide counsel and training to She-Ra.`”

“Quick follow-up, who were the First-Ones?”

“`Those you call the 'First-Ones' are an advanced multi-stellar civilization. They colonized Etheria over one thousand five hundred years ago. They built this place, the Crystal Castle, for She-Ra.`”

“I though there were no more First-Ones.”

“`The First-Ones underwent complete civilizational collapse over a brief period, around one thousand years ago. The cause of this is unknown to me. On Etheria, the First-Ones are now extinct, and re-colonization is currently impossible.`”

“They colonized Etheria? From… From where?”

“`The migration flotilla originated on the planet Eternia, orbiting the star Apollona, the cradle-world of the so-called-First-Ones' civilization.`”

“You’re going to have to break this down for me; there’s something I’m missing.”

The room shifts to an outdoors gazebo under a magnificent view of the night sky, by the ocean. There’s a breeze, and the unmistakable saltiness in the cold air.

The sky is full of pinpricks of light.

“`This is what the night sky looked like at this time of year, one thousand and one hundred years ago.`”

The pinpricks of light vanish.

“`This is what it looks like today. A cataclysmic event, the causes of which I know not, transported Etheria and its star, Sola, into a pocket of spacetime, separeted from the larger universe. There exists in this galaxy alone over one hundred billion stars like Sola.`”

The stars return.

“Starlight is mine to command,” Adora recites in awe.

“`Indeed. You are She-Ra, Champion of Etheria. Appointed by the First-Ones to protect and unite the nations and powers of the planet.`”

A golden figure appears, standing in the dewy grass. Behind her, another. Behind her, another. And another. And another.

“`There have been many before you, but the line was broken. You are the first She-Ra in a thousand years.`”

“Why me?”

“`You are the first eligible candidate to emerge in that time.`”

“Based on what?”

“`Your heritage. You are of the people you call the First-Ones.`” Adora gives a start, but the blue woman continues, “`To conclude on the topic of She-Ra: everything on Etheria is connected. The people you know as Princesses, the Wielders, are granted power through the connections they forge with their Runestones.`”

A circle of figures rise around the gazebo; statues. Many of them people Adora knows: Glimmer, Angella, and the whole Princess Alliance. But then there is three spaces in the ring where only a rough-hewn sketch of a person stand.

“`The duty of She-Ra's is to guide them, and in the starlight bind them. Only then can balance be restored to Etheria, and your destiny can be fulfilled.`”

“Okay. Okay— There are just way too many things I want to ask about there.”

“`I shall be happy to answer all that I can, although there are some matters I am not permitted to speak on by edict of my creators.`”

“I’m a First-One? Do you know my… My real parents? How did I get here now if they were all wiped out?!”

“`Yes. I do not have access to genealogical records at present, my systems were damaged around the same time as the First-Ones disappeared, and Etheria was separated from the universe. I suspect you were displaced in time, somehow, by way of a wormhole.`”

“Of course,” Adora says, throwing her hands up in the air, “Of _course,_ you can’t give me any answers. That is just my luck.”

“`You seem upset. I apologize that I am not more helpful. I might be able to remedy this with your help, but please, continue.`”

Adora rests her head in her hands, elbows on the table. A tear rolls down her nose, dripping onto the table. “I lost a friend just now, today.”

“`I witnessed your argument with the user 'Catra.' My condolences. I did not approach you earlier because I sensed it would be inappropriate; and that she might have enmity towards me, and yourself.`”

“Yeah. Thanks, I guess.” Adora rubs her eyes. It’s still day outside, but she feels tired. “You said you could train me?”

“`Correct.`”

“I’m already trained extensively in combat and tactics; but I don’t know much about She-Ra’s abilities beyond the obvious and destructive. I actually came here to find out— I came across a myth that She-Ra can heal injuries?”

“`One of the intended powers of She-Ra is restoration. This ability is projected to be integral to fulfilling your destiny.`”

“Great! I really need it to help my friend.”

“`Your friend?`”

“Yes. She was abducted, and the Horde did some kind of experiment to her; maybe laid a curse on her? It’s not really clear. The point is… Actually the friend in question is _that one_ —” Adora turns to point at Glimmer’s statue. “Her name is Glimmer, and she has lost her powers.”

Light Hope looks at Glimmer’s likeness. “`Her connection to her Runestone has been disrupted; although she is not the primary Wielder.`” Light hope points to Angella’s statue. “`That is the primary Wielder of the Space aspect Runestone known as 'Moonstone' to you.`”

“Can you teach me how to fix it?”

“`You can learn to do many incredible things with training.`”

“Vague, but I’ll take it. How long will the training take? Days? Weeks? I’m a quick study, usually.”

“`Current projections are at least one full year, at most seven.`”

“But— but we don’t have a full year. We’re at war! The Alliance can’t fight the Horde for a year without She-Ra!” Adora protests, standing.

“`Your duty is to restore balance to all of Etheria. I advise that you do not use your powers out of a selfish motive or personal gain. Whatever the outcome of this war, it is secondary to your duty and destiny.`”

“So what is this destiny you keep mentioning?”

“`I am barred from discussing specifics.`”

“You don’t know anything about troop morale, do you?”

“`Pardon?`”

“According to Chancellor Hordak’s _Manual of Propaganda, Recruitment, and Public Support_ only the basest propaganda presses duty and obligation. Nobody has ever gone to war out of duty. Nations go to war out of fear, pride, or self-interest. The people supports warfare out of a desire for, and admiration of, the heroic acclaim of soldiers. Soldiers fight for their buddies.”

“`I do not read books.`”

Adora rolls her eyes. “So anyway, telling me that I have to forsake my friends is a deal-breaker.”

“`Adora, you do not yet realize the power you hold. You are distracted by your attachments. Your predecessor was similarly entangled with matters beyond her duty and destiny. Her name was Mara.`”

Another statue appears, this one standing at the end of the table.

A woman, so tall and broad-shouldered that Adora for a moment thinks her transformed, but no. Her hair is brown like the dark earth, and her skin olive-brown. Her eyes are kind. She is young.

However, in this image is also somehow, her transformation. Like one of those images with twin motifs, where the details can be seen either as the ears of a rabbit or the bill of a duck.

As She-Ra, the woman is a titan. Adora’s lither more athletic build as She-Ra, looks positively petite in comparison. The weapon in her hand is a golden-shafted polearm with a gigantic bluish blade, and her white outfit is full plate and mail. Her hair is free-flowing gold, where Adora’s is white and done up in tight topknots or braids.

“What happened to her?”

“`She struggled with a power that she could not control, until it became too much for her mind.`”

“She broke down?”

“`She gave in to fear, and was compromised. Her reasoning became irrational, and her desperate actions led to devastation. The evidence would suggest that she was a catalyst in the cataclysm one thousand years ago, wiping out the First-Ones, sequestering this world away from the larger universe, and breaking the She-Ra line.`”

Light Hope slumps. “`I have waited here a thousand years, alone, and partially non-functional. I did not know if I would ever see another She-Ra, or if I would ever be able to fulfill my purpose.`” She looks up at Adora, her face more animate than it has been this whole conversation. “`You must stay here, and train; learn to be the She-Ra that Mara could not be.`”

Adora stands up. "No. Light Hope, I appreciate your situation, but… I cannot let the Horde slaughter who knows how many innocent. I cannot abandon my friends, not _ever._ And I cannot accept that you won’t tell me what my destiny is.

“I have been lied to my whole life, by people telling me I had a purpose and a potential I had to live up to, and those people wanted me to partake in a massacre. Who’s to say Mara wasn’t right to do what she did? Who am I to know that the First-Ones weren’t monsters — the Horde was, and I didn’t chose to be a part of that either.”

“`Your emotions are getting in the way of your reason,`” Light hope says. “`Calm yourself.`”

“No. You’re the one who’re failing to convince me. Tell me the truth or I walk. I’m She-Ra; I’ll figure it out myself.”

Light Hope looks to be on the brink of tears. “`I--- I can't. I cannot tell you. There are things I wish so much for you to know; I'm torn apart by these conflicting directives that I must obey. Please. Don't abandon me; I will compromise as much as is possible for me to do.`”

The raw emotion from this previously cold woman takes Adora by surprise.

“Sorry,” Adora says. “I— that was harsh of me. I understand what it’s like to be split between what’s right and… Yeah.”

Light Hope smiles. “`You are always welcome, here in the crystal palace, and I will always be here to help you in any way I can.`”

Adora sits down. “What can you tell me about my ability to heal?”

* * *

Glimmer is sitting on a school bench for the first time in over a year. Last time anyone educated her in a structured manner, was when she was in officer school. This is an introductory class on sorcery, so Glimmer is sitting next to seven kids.

"The essence of sorcery is to get something for nothing. The notion of fairness and proportion is to be rejected summarily before any magic is to be attempted. Even the smallest spell’s effect is beyond impossible to achieve by other means. Sorcery is its own subtle poetry, distinct from the mundane, and indeed is at its weakest when brought upon to achieve the mundane.

“This is for instance why battle sorcery is rarely practiced; the investment of time is too great — you will be better served learning how to load and fire a musket, or fight with a sword if you wish harm upon your enemies.”

Castaspella gestures, filling the room with multi-colored floating baubles of light. "Sorcery is easily brought to dazzle and impress, but this too is a trap. Illusionism is the easiest branch of magic, but at the same time, often the least interesting. This are mostly what they seem, and no amount of subterfuge can change hard realities.

“Dark sorcery, which you are forbidden from performing for good reason, is the introduction of _exchange_ into sorcerous practice. The price for any given effect often far outstrips the utility of the spell; and it can cost you everything up to and including your soundness of mind and body to cast it. Believe me when I say, even the smallest dark spell can drain years off your lifespan, shrivel your limbs into twigs, and kill you. If you are still curious, you are welcome to go to the library and ask for books about why you should never perform dark sorcery.”

Castaspella pauses for effect.

"Now, enough high-faluting theory, let’s talk practice — I believe in learning by doing. We shall focus our studies on incantational, calligraphic, choreographic, and musical performance of magic, since those are widely agreed upon to be the most useful ways of performing magic. For the first spell which we shall cast later today, you will use the idea of a circle to make light. We shall practice this spell in all four forms: drawing it, gesturing it, speaking it, and whistling it.

“Drawing a circle is simple, speaking a circle is _O_ , gesturing a circle can either be done with with motion —” Castaspella swings her index finger around in a well-practiced circular path “— or with the fingers in two ways —” she joins index and thumb of both hands into a circular form; then joins thumb and index on one finger into a circle. "Last, a musical circle is just a single pure note.

“If we get to it at the end of today, we might start combining performances. Can someone give me an example?”

One of the kids raises a hand.

“Magnus?”

“Chanting?” he asks.

“Correct; chanting is what?”

“Speech and music?”

“Exactly right. Now, magic works on the principle of denomination, whereby references are reified. Can somebody tell me what a reference is in each of the four forms?”

Glimmer knows this one, and raises a hand.

“Princess?”

“Spoken reference is a name, a gestured reference is pointing, a drawn reference is a symbol, and a musical reference is a leitmotif.”

“Indeed, might I ask if perhaps King Micah taught you that?”

“He did,” Glimmer says.

“Excellent. Now, the incantation to form light by circular speech is _O, light, O._ ” She holds out a hand and the air glows above it. “We shall focus on the meditative aspect of achieving rejection of harsh reality, while speaking this incantation. With me now, _O, light, O._ ”

Glimmer gets it on the first try.

* * *

Catra reaches the entry chamber with the gatekeeper hologram without issue — the Elevator, while not where they left it, was still close by.

“`Greetings, user Catra.`” The gatekeeper says.

“Is there a storage room in this facility for tools and machinery?”

“`Storage room two-alpha. Please follow the glowing line in the floor.`”

Another line lights up in the floor, and Catra follows it, down a crystal-panelled hallway, to an offshoot chamber.

Inside, she finds a veritable smorgasbord of invaluable, ancient technology. Immediately upon opening the door, a rush of wind ventilates the stale air out of the room, which has likely not opened for so long that it might have been dangerous to venture inside without a respirator. Catra knows very well the danger of enclosed unventilated spaces; naval safety briefings were quite clear.

She proceeds with caution, waiting first for the vigorous ventilation system to work for a full minute.

Inside is dozens of crated-up things labeled in that strange writing which she cannot read. However, there is a cargo trolley.

“Hey, hologram lady, are you in here?” Catra asks aloud.

“`What is your query?`” a voice sounds coming eerily from nowhere.

“What’s in this crate?” Catra asks, putting her hand on one of the metal crates

“`Stand by--- that crate contains an inferometer.`”

And so Catra goes around the room, asking about the content of every container, and the purpose of every tool lying about. Most of them are measuring devices, simple machine tools like lathes and mills, or things she has no idea about. Then she gets to the prize.

“`That crate contains a disassembled universal fabricator.`”

Bingo.

With some effort she gets the crate onto the trolley, together with two other crates — the heaviest and/or least familiar ones — and wheels it out of there.

The door to the outside opens upon her approach, and Scorpia and Lonnie come running to help her. “Let’s get this back,” Catra says. “Get the mules. We need to get this back to Capital.”


	5. Old Bonds, New Light

“This is _amazing!_ ”

Entrapta comes running with a pry bar, and all the crazed passion of a starved wolf before a side of mutton. Deftly setting one boot on the crate lid, she jams the bar hard in between lid and crate, and levers the two apart.

Her overalls are stained, and her hair is curling itself into helices and spirals in excitement.

“So what is this thing?” Catra asks.

“It’s a universal fabricator!” Entrapta yells. She kicks the lid off and stops, looking over the components, each individually set in foam cutouts. “Oh _hello_ there, handsome.” she says in a sultry voice, caressing the disembodied actuators. “You and I are going to be _good friends,_ I can already tell.”

Catra disregards the crazy woman’s flirting with inanimate machinery. “Yeah, I know what it’s called, what does it do?”

Entrapta turns to Catra. “It’s a manufacturing tool which can manufacture virtually anything, given the correct raw materials, sufficient power, and the right encoded blueprints.”

Entrapta begins unpacking the components, while her assistants clear space on the workshop floor. “Which is great for so many reasons: this is an entire machine shop that’s smaller than my big lathe —” with a tendril of hair she points at the _big_ lathe “— and what’s better it can work with _any_ material, so plastics and ceramics and even organics, not just metal, and even refine its feedstock. And that means it is capable of self-replication, so if we need to scale up production we can just fabricate _another fabricator!_ From _scrap!_ ”

Entrapta’s workshop is enormous. If there’s a type of machine tool which isn’t somewhere on the floor, it is because whatever function it performs is better performed by something else in here. This is the finest machinery the Hordelands can provide, along with several custom-built devices.

“Oh! Yes! Yes-yes-yes!” Entrapta yells. “It has a data crystal of common patterns!” She rushes over to a console, fitted with a fathom-wide keyboard full of hundreds of keys engraved with strange symbols, two-dozen phosphorescent screens, and an entire row of sprocket-fed dot-matrix printers. She slots the crystal into a fixture, and data spills out on the screens. “ _Oh!_ We have a universal refinery attachment in there!”

“And that means?”

“If we build that attachment it can refine any raw materials containing the correct elements into feedstock. We could build everything we need out of _sand._ At least provided we have the time, and power.”

“I still don’t really understand what makes it so amazing.”

Entrapta stops what she’s doing. "This machine eliminates the need for everything in this room, as well as the foundry that casts and forges the feedstock. It eliminates the entire work-floor next door where we grow the crystals, and the one next door from that where we produce plastics. This device undercuts the entire supply chain of production.

“The only problem is—” Entrapta types away furiously with two hair-hands “— yeah, power generation. This thing needs more power to run at full speed than we can supply, by a factor of sixty, and it doesn’t come with a generator blueprint.”

“So that’s what I’m going after next?”

“Correct! We need a mobile power plant, or more directly the blueprints to construct one. I’ll get Hor-hor to build one of those fusion power plants if he can, and that’ll be a stopgap, but we need something better. Next after that, a nice-to-have would be some proper computation power, so blueprints for that or an actual computer.”

“And the other two crates I brought?” Catra asks.

Entrapta glances at them. “I’ll break them down for spare parts and scraps.”

Catra wonders where this woman, twice her age, gets all that energy from.

Entrapta trots over to the partially unpacked fabricator turns and gestures to one of the floor workers, a satyr man in a blue coverall. “Hey! Help me with this!”

“So…” Catra says, starting to think through the large-scale implication of getting this device up and running. “How quickly can we roll this out for large-scale production?”

“Oh, in a few years,” Entrapta says nonchalantly. “Faster of course if you can get me the right extra components, but we’ll need to re-build a lot of infrastructure needed to just operate the thing.”

Great. Just long enough to lose the war.

* * *

Glimmer sips the delicious tea. “This is really good.”

Castaspella pours herself a cup. “It’s my personal blend.”

“So what do you want to discuss?”

“You performed very well in class today. I’m moving you up to one-on-one; not that I expected anything else from my brother’s daughter.” She smiles.

“What was he like?”

“Hm?”

“My dad.”

“Oh he was a rascal, my little brother. He was irreverent, always reminding me just how good he was at magic, compared to me.”

“Did that ever bother you?”

"Oh all the time; back then, your mother was much more involved with Mystacor, it was just when the Horde conquered the other side of the Whispering Woods. The alliance was still frail, and the Fractal Knot had no wielder.

"The first time he met her, he must have been eight years old or so. He became quite smitten and adamantly insisted he’d one day marry her. Oh how everyone laughed at him, and he would get so _angry_ and _pout_.

"Your Mother humored the poor boy, convinced it would go away. She left, and he started writing her letters, quite innocently, mind you. We encouraged it: being pen-pals with royalty was a useful diplomatic angle.

“But he was always a free spirit; never had many friends among his peers. I stayed here and worked my hindquarters off, making myself a space in guild politics and the university. Micah, he… He got a lot worse after Light Spinner left us.”

Glimmer nods. “I know about her; she went to the Horde and ended up raising Adora.”

“Did she now? I can’t imagine her being a good mother.”

“She emphatically wasn’t, as far as I’ve heard; do continue.”

Castaspella puts her cup down. “You don’t know about Light Spinner, not really. She was obsessed with power. I happen to know she came from a dark past — I was a… Confidante of hers, in a way; on occasion. She ended up using university resources to cast a particular dark ritual, which is as horrible as it is forbidden. And she roped Micah into helping her.”

“Oh no!” Glimmer says quietly.

"He was unhurt, physically, but his mind bore the scars for some time afterwards. He went away. He traveled the world; he grew up. He and Angella kept writing, and became very intimate friends — she sympathized with his pain, so I’m told.

"Next time I saw him, he was a man I barely knew, and yet the brother I had always loved. He became a General in Mystacor’s excursionary forces, and trained the young Netossa, among others.

"Queen Angella must have been taken by surprise, when they met again at a social function. Little Micah, all grown up. It was not long after that, when I heard that my brother was looking into transferring to Brightmoon.

“A few years after that, you came along. I never saw him happier.”

She smiles. And then her smile fades. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story of how he fell.”

Glimmer nods.

“Anyway!” Castaspella says. “I did not call you here to reminisce about our good King Micah, I called you here to ask you if you have figured out the secret of Rune Sorcery yet.”

Glimmer blinks. “Uh…”

“I’m testing you. Do take your time. Today you made light; by drawing, speaking, singing, and gesturing. Now synthesize.”

Glimmer wracks her brain for a moment, swirling her tea. She looks at her hand, and makes the circular gesture. She hums the little composition _Of The Gold Morning_ , to avoid having to point the gesture towards a source of light.

Then as the magic comes, she focuses it into a figure: a circle. The universal symbol of power. Then even as it hangs there she says “ _light,_ ” and through the circle, another light spell unfolds.

Castaspella claps. “ _Oh,_ wonderful! Bravo! That is positively amazing.”

“It is?”

“Yes. You just cast a Rune spell. Perhaps the simplest one, but it shows your talent at this — give or take my prodding. We don’t generally take in students for studying Rune Sorcery without them independently discovering it. Those that lack the curiosity generally never make good Rune Sorcerers.”

Rune Sorcery. Glimmer looks at her hand. “So where do I go from there?”

“Memorization. The basic tool of a Rune Sorcerer is illusion — don’t worry, we have better drawing spells than this simple conjuration of light you just used; more precise ones — whereby one conjures a _Rune,_ that is, a traditional calligraphic spell diagram. In this fashion, the gestural and verbal components of a rune spell are merely a staging device for the payload spell. Unfortunately it requires fierce dedication to the study of symbolism, and each rune must be memorized perfectly. The benefit is… Well…”

Castaspella stands, takes a few steps back, and with outstretched arms, hums a complex tune. Between her hands, a large diagram forms, a circle containing a spiral of text; the material of the diagram looking like blue-hot metal wire.

Above the diagram, an intense flame springs to life, so hot Glimmer can feel it on her face all the way across the room.

Castaspella whips her hands into fists with a flourish, and the flame disappears. “That was the Third Flame of Elm, one of a set of combat spells written by High Pyromancer Elm two-hundred years ago. It burns hot enough to melt stone.”

“Combat sorcery,” Glimmer says.

“Indeed. Fire, lightning, and protective barriers. Mind-reading and control. Summoning strange entities from beyond this world for momentary servitude. Banishing the very same back whence they came. All of this and more available at the tips of one’s fingers.”

* * *

Light Hope is not a good teacher. Adora’s power is singular, so the only guidance she can get is the writings of her predecessors. Which are hit and miss. None of the qualifications for being She-Ra is to be a good educator. Mara’s attempt at an explanation was _particularly_ unhelpful.

The suggestions ranged from Mara’s uselessly poetic: “ _The world may seem filled with randomness, but is in fact a coreographed dance of intricate order, begetting chaos only in our limited understanding. Participate in this dance splendid, and starlight will come to you._ ”

Over the uselessly laconic: “ _You have to just feel it._ ”

To the uselessly direct: “ _Channel the collective energy of all stars in the universe into the palm of your hand, as is your birthright._ ”

Still, she walks out of the Crystal castle near midnight, holding starlight in the palm of her hand. For all Light Hope’s hospitality, Adora is not intent on staying there overnight.

There is not much more to it; the fickle energies she call upon are as temperamental as wild sparrows, and as warm to hold too. It feels delicate, not like a weapon, not even like a nurturing and healing force.

It feels most of all like something to protect, as if were she to use this power for anything, she would be forcing her will onto it, hurting it in the process.

Light Hope assures her she will come to wield it, as all her predecessors, to both protect, attack, and restore, but right now Adora just holds the little ball of light to her chest, as she summons her robot silver steed, and rides west through the woods, towards Brightmoon.

* * *

“Penny for your thoughts, Wildcat?”

Catra looks up from the workbench. “Hm?”

“You’ve been cleaning that gun for ten minutes now,” Scorpia says. “Something is on your mind. What happened in those First-Ones’ ruins?”

“Nothing.”

Scorpia walks up to the workbench and leans against it. “Hey now; something’s bothering you. I’m always here to talk, you know that, right?”

“It’s Adora.”

“Yeah, you did go in after her. What happened?”

“She’s always been there, you know?”

“In your life? Yeah— I kind of maybe read your file once.”

Catra arches an eyebrow. “You sneaky pervert.”

“Hey, you know me. I can’t resist a pretty face. Anyway; sorry I interrupted.”

Catra throws the cleaning rag into the trash bin in the middle distance, and re-installs the cylinder of the revolver. “She’s not been _in_ my life. She loomed over it like a big… Something big that casts a long shadow. She let me take the fall for things just so she could play the hero and rescue me.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. I kicked her down a big shaft and then ran off to steal her stuff, so…”

“But she’s still on your mind.”

“I hate it, but yeah.”

“Wanna go to the range and take some of those frustrations out on paper targets?”

Catra clears the weapon and puts it in cavalryman’s holster one the right. This one is _not_ a standard military issue; it is a large-caliber magnum double-action revolver. One of a set of two, phosphatized and then lacquered black for extra durability. The perfect side-arm for her strength and speed.

This is complemented by two hammerless snub-nosed revolvers she keeps concealed, one in her left boot, the other in left-hander’s appendix carry. Her other boot holds a knife, of course.

Lastly, her right armpit holster holds a single-action only fixed frame revolver with an extra long barrel, for longer-distance shooting.

She grabs the long stiletto sitting stabbed into the bench-top, and re-sheathes it on her right wrist.

“Sure, why not.”

* * *

There’s a knock on Adora’s door.

The starlight in her hands winks out.

“I’m coming in!”

There’s a humming tone, and the latch on the door undoes itself. The door opens and Glimmer comes in, a dusting of snow on the shoulders of her purple cloak. “Adora.”

“Glimmer, hi.”

“Where have you been? I heard you cancelled your lectures for a whole week?”

Adora nods. “I needed some time to figure this She-Ra thing out. Where have you been?”

“In Mystacor, learning sorcery.”

“Oh. How is that coming along?”

Glimmer waves her pinky finger in a circle and chants a short rhyming phrase in a language that feels to Adora like water slipping through cupped hands.

The entire room warms comfortably, and the air becomes fresh as a mountain top.

“Oh. Any news on the Moonstone?”

Glimmer shakes her head. “I heard from Bow that you went to that place we hid in the first time we met.”

“It’s called the Crystal Castle, and it’s mine by right as She-Ra or something. There’s a… Spirit of sorts there, Light Hope, who is to train me to be the best She-Ra I can be.”

“That’s good; you’ve got a teacher!” She throws off her hood.

Adora shakes her head and grimaces. “It’s not. There’s something off about her that I can’t really understand. There’s things she’s not allowed to tell me, and while she can readily help me train combat and tactics, and I guess history; she can’t teach me anything about _this._ ”

Adora dips into the place she’s found in her mind, from where starlight flows. The little glimmer of light appears in her cupped palms. It’s no larger or stronger than it was four days ago, despite daily hours of practice. “It’s not much, and I’m not getting any better with practice, it seems.”

Glimmer steps close, to see. “It’s beautiful,” she says quietly. She puts her hands on Adora’s, icy cold from the trip through Brightmoon on foot. Adora’s are warm. “What is it?”

The light swells. “Starlight,” Adora says.

Adora looks up at Glimmer, who smiles. “See?” she says. “You’ve got the hang of this, whatever it is!” She leans in to kiss Adora on the cheek, and the room is bathed in light.

“Whoa.”

“You can say that again,” Glimmer steps back, and the glow diminishes to the barest white ember.

“It’s never done that before,” Adora says quietly.

Glimmer steps closer and brushes a lock of hair behind Adora’s ear. The light swells.

“Hey, don’t you miss Bow? I haven’t seen him in a week,” Glimmer says.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Think about the bear hug he’s going to give you, and if you show him this ‘starlight’ I’m sure he’ll be happy.”

The glow rises further. “Yeah, I miss him.”

“Adora,” Glimmer says.

“What?”

“I love you.”

Adora blushes, and there’s a brilliant flash, then it winks out.

Glimmer claps her hands together triumphantly. “I figured it out!”

Adora sputters, her face going beet red.

“Sorry for springing that on you; but I figured out why you’re not getting better at it with practice. It’s not a skill.”

“It’s— it’s not?”

“It’s bolstered by love, and I’d wager a guess that it’s hampered by insecurity.”

Adora looks at her like she’s grown a second head. “What?”

“Sorry; I just spent a good few days independently discovering some rather deep aspects of sorcery, so I’ve come into a mind-space for figuring things out by experimentation.”

Adora looks down in her hands. “Love?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“So rather than sit here and feel bad that you’re not good enough; come with me. I’m going to the Ranger Compound and then you, me, and Bow, are going to catch up and get drunk. And then you’ll call on your starlight, and it’ll be brilliant because you’ll be with friends you love. Sounds good?”

Adora nods.

“Grab your cloak, my guard retinue is standing down there in the cold; I don’t want them getting frostbite.”

* * *

It does help, tremendously. And Bow does give Adora a big hug, the kind of big hug a big man like Bow can give to a relatively diminutive woman like her. A very nice hug indeed.

They’ve ended up in a mid-range tavern. The royal guard captain heading Glimmer’s round-the-clock security detail — a woman with a prominent scar across the nose — has insisted on buying out the whole place. The barkeep is very cordial about not having his regulars in, helped along by the generous inconvenience payout.

“Oh man, tell me everything!” Bow says excitedly. “I’ve had my nose buried in books and paperwork, and only target-shooting to keep me sharp. Winter is bad for roving out, you know.”

“You were building something when we last spoke,” Adora points out.

“Yeah, okay, I _have_ built a better, more versatile, lodestone tracker. Now it’s just the tedium of going and checking each of my new readings of potential First-Ones’ artifacts, genius loci, and unusual magical signatures. But Glimmer, you picked up sorcery?! In what, two weeks?”

Glimmer nods, proud, and sips her warm wine. “I am my father’s daughter.”

She gestures, hums a complex little melody, and the whole booth they’re in is filled with softly glowing violet haze, sparkles, and a pleasant odor of lavender.

Bow is almost unsuitably impressed by the illusion. “Oh you are going to be _fun_ at parties now.”

Glimmer sets down her cup, with a funny expression on her face. “I wasn’t _before?!_ ”

“Yeah, but I don’t think blinking the hostess’ underwear three feet to the left is wholly appropriate.”

“That was _one time!_ ” Glimmer yells and throws a salted nut at him.

Adora giggles.

“ _Anyway,_ ” Glimmer continues. “I’m not the main event; Adora has something to show you.”

“It’s nothing really,” Adora says.

Glimmer reaches over, taking Adora’s hand off the warm earthenware mug, and gives it a squeeze. “Come on,” she says gently.

Adora holds out her free hand, and calls upon the starlight.

A warm, comforting glow fills the tavern.

Bow says nothing for a long time. “ _It’s beautiful,_ ” he almost whispers.

* * *

That night, Adora rides home on her steed-construct, well inebriated, and happy. The thought of the oncoming war banished from her mind for a brief night of fun with her friends.

She comes into her small apartment, and rather than light a candle, decides to illuminate the midwinter darkness with starlight. It’s easy, now that she knows how.

The little bauble of light flutters after her, as she lights a fire in the stove for warmth overnight, and brushes her teeth for bed (missing a little the standard-issue toothpaste back in the Horde army.)

Lying down under the heavy winter blankets, tucking her legs up like always, her mind wanders back to the Crystal Castle. She’ll need to go back there now, and learn how to heal. Hopefully Light Hope has something other than her predecessors less-than-helpful advice on the matter.

Her mind drifts to the unreality field there, the reified hallucinations. To Catra. She recalls something. Back when they were teens, in the academy dorm. When Catra curled up in the foot end of her bed.

* * *

_“Hey Adora. Do you ever feel like there’s spiders in your belly?”_

_“Spiders?”_

_“Like it tickles inside; close to the heart. I— I feel that way right now.”_

_“Are you sick? Should I call the nurse?”_

_“No! No, no. It’s… It’s not a bad feeling.”_

_“Oh.”_

_“And I feel it every time I’m with you.”_

_“So every day all the time or what?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“I… I think I know what you mean.”_

* * *

Adora opens her eyes, thinking in the tired haze of drunken stupor that dawn has come early.

But it’s the little bauble of light she left fluttering about. It’s like looking at the warm morning sun, but it doesn’t hurt her eyes.

She smiles. Then, with the placid slowness that drink begets, realization dawns on her, and the light ebbs with every grim implication.

Adora doesn’t sleep pleasantly that night, at all.


	6. Mother, Crone

Winter brings a stilling of the war effort. Snows keeps mobilizing their elite armies through the, to them, mild winters of the southern borders of their kingdom, but everyone else save Salineas, has to bow to the passing of the seasons; such is the year when the warring nations all share a hemisphere.

The efforts to pave a singular road through the Whispering Woods where the continent-spanning forest is at its very narrowest, seems doomed to fail.

The path north around this barrier, goes through hostile territory with a stark climate advantage. The southern naval path is blocked by the supremacy of the Salinean navies.

To the east, things are not much better, with the Candila’s forces guarding the passes south of the impassable Crimson Wastes, and Candila itself being all but unassailable from the sea due to their ancient sea walls of solid steel.

Apieria, across the shattered sea, north of the Wastes presents an archipelagic coastline which ought to be vulnerable, but has proven to be a nightmare to gain a foothold in.

On all sides, the Hordelands are fenced in. Ineffectual, waiting, while her enemies mobilize their forces.

And even the technical superiority of their weaponry seems moot, as the muskets of the enemy consistently out-range their repeating rifles. The collected R&D divisions can only theorize that somehow the manufacturing techniques of Brightmoon, Candila, and Salineas somehow imbue ordinary objects with a subtle form of magic.

The mystery of this too will be cracked one day, but not in time to turn the tide of the war.

What does turn the tide of the war, is that six weeks hence, just when the world is about to thaw and armies are about to move, Entrapta manages to build an interface that bridges the magic of Runestones, with her own amalgamated creations.

* * *

Adora — as She-Ra — heads back into the woods. The cold is beginning to really show its teeth as winter ends.

It’s been well over a month since she was here last, and she has permitted herself to fall into a routine of teaching, practice at channelling starlight, the occasional date-night with Glimmer, and the regular game night with Bow as well — she’s getting respectable at Ombre at this point. (And yes, they play for money; which the victor then promptly spends on more booze.)

Today is her day off, and by this third visit, she knows the path to the Crystal Castle well enough to traverse it without a guide, which is good because the path has something else in store for her.

She reaches the part of the path where she would diverge into the woods towards the large rock formation, but instead there, in the snow, lies a figure.

A figure in a coarsely woven cloak. The snow is disturbed, leading into the woods.

Adora dismounts, and the silver steed leaps to her brow as the usual diadem.

“Hey,” she calls out. No reaction. Hurrying, she reaches the figure and turns it to reveal the face of an old lady. Cold to the touch, but still breathing. “Oh no,” Adora mutters.

She picks her up, and finds that the old lady weighs almost nothing. “You must have come from somewhere…”

Adora follows the disturbed snow, which seems like they were left by the old lady crawling out to the path.

The trail ends a pile of firewood, and an indentation in the snow where she first fell. Adora’s diadem springs onto the ground, flowing into the form of a skeletal automaton, which dutifully picks up the firewood.

From there, a more ordinary-looking trail leads a circuitous route through the woods, finally ending in a clearing with a hut.

“We need to get you out of the cold, granny,” Adora mutters, and heads inside.

The door is solid, and the walls are stuffed tight with straw.

Adora lays the woman on the bed, and the automaton drops the firewood on the floor and vanishes, having served its purpose. She builds a fire in the fireplace, and lights it with a conjured blowtorch, then moves the old lady over to lie directly next to the fire.

It’s not many minutes before she stirs and regains consciousness.

She props herself up on one elbow, looking around; scratching her scalp under the unruly grey locks. Then she spots Adora, standing by the door.

“Mara, dear, is that you?”

Adora freezes. “Mara? I’m not Mara.”

“Don’t be silly. Who else would you be? There is only one She-Ra!” She looks at the fire. “Did you help me with the firewood?”

“Lady, you were passed out in the snow, near death. I saved you.”

“Oh, you _are_ Mara!” The old lady giggles. “Such a hero; always, always.”

She tries to sit, but cries out in pain, and falls back down. “Oh dear, my back has given out hasn’t it? This is no good.”

Adora comes over to the fireplace, and sits on her knees next to the woman. “Who are you?”

“Why Mara you silly girl, I’m auntie Razz.”

“Razz, I’m not Mara. Mara is— I don’t even know how you know Mara. She’s likely dead, and has been for hundreds of years,” Adora says. She reverts to her ordinary form, dressed as always in battledress — gambeson, canvas pants, black boots and gloves — under a heavy red cloak with fur hemming the hood. She throws back the hood. “My name is Adora.”

Razz lies there for a long beat. “Come closer dear, my eyesight is not what it once was.”

Adora obliges, and Razz reaches out to tenderly touch her cheek. “Oh, Adora; it is really you.”

“You know me?”

Razz’s eyes fill with tears. “Oh, how could I forget.” She claws at her temple. “Stupid, stupid, always forgetting the things that matter.”

Adora stops her before she draws blood with torn nails. “Razz, please, it’s okay.”

The tears start running down Razz’s cheeks. “If you’re here; if you’re She-Ra, then Mara is really gone, isn’t she?”

Adora nods.

Razz turns away and sobs quietly, drawing a few ragged breaths. Eventually she wipes her eyes. “Sorry, sweetness. Sorry you have to see an old crazy-woman cry.”

“I don’t understand anything,” Adora says.

Razz pushes herself up to sit, wincing, but pressing through the pain. Then she draws Adora into a hug. “Oh, I am so glad I didn’t also loose you, Adora.”

“Razz, what happened?”

“Oh, it must have been a long time ago now. What did you say, hundreds of years?”

Adora nods.

“I was a friend of Mara. She— No… No. They are long gone, old girl. The First-Ones are all dead, are they not?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

"I was not her friend. I was her birthing mother, in the program. It was forbidden, but I wormed myself into her life, through bribery and subterfuge and favors and a little bit of hacking. She called me auntie.

"I watched her grow up. Go through the training program, and ascend to divinity as She-Ra. She was so clever, my Mara. So clever she figured out what they were doing, and decided to do something about it.

“It almost worked, too.”

Adora sits there, wide-eyed. “What worked?”

“It was Mara and the Grayskull Corps’ master plan to wipe the First-Ones’ out.”

* * *

“ _What is the meaning of this?!_ ” Shadow Weaver thunders.

The shadows in the room warp and stretch. The team of engineers and scientists milling around the room stop, and many of them react with overt fear.

Entrapta is the only one who isn’t fazed by it; she cheerfully hums a broken tune, monitoring something or other, hidden behind her many screens.

“Continue working!” Catra bellows, holding up a hand.

Scorpia, Kyle, Rogelio, and Lonnie all spring to their feet, hands on their weapons.

“Did you really think you could invade my inner sanctum without me noticing? I never thought you would be so bold as to openly rebel, but it will be my _pleasure_ to put you back in your place,” Shadow Weaver says, advancing on Catra.

The shadows curl around Catra, but she stands her ground.

“Oh Shadow Weaver, oversight really hasn’t done anything for your mood, has it?”

“You are on _thin ice,_ you insolent mongrel!” Shadow Weaver hisses.

Catra puts a clawed finger in Shadow Weaver’s face. “We can do whatever we want to this hunk of rock.”

“An _absurd_ notion of a deranged mind; I don’t know what kind of authority you presume to have—”

Catra laughs. “You might wanna look around the room. I’m not the director of this operation; that would be _Princess Entrapta_ over there.”

Entrapta peeks out. “ _Did someone say my name?!_ ”

“No,” Catra continues. “I’m just the _security._ And the _Chancellor,_ he gave me free reign to handle you as I saw fit. So what’ll it be, _mom?_ ”

The phone rings. One of the lab-coat-clad technicians picks it up, exchanges a few words, then looks up. “Madam Director? It’s for you.”

A lash of shadow whips out, snatching the handset forcefully from his hand. “ _What!_ ” she hisses.

There’s a reply.

“Pardon, Chancellor Hordak, I— … But our agreement! I need it; for my condition! I’m the only one who understands it, the only one who can bend it to my—”

She holds the handset out. “He hung up on me,” she mutters.

The handset falls to the ground.

“ _You,_ ” Shadow Weaver hisses, pointing a clawed hand at Catra. “This is _your fault._ ”

A wave of force throws Catra backwards; she spins in the air, landing in a handspring to standing. “Don’t let her get to the Runestone!” she yells.

Four sidearms are drawn, leveled on the Shadow Weaver, but she takes off, making a beeline for the Runestone. Shots ring out, but either they all miss, or the sorceress has some trick to dodge gunfire.

A mangled hand makes contact with the red crystal, and the room vanishes, replaced by inky blackness.

Catra holds her ground, even as she hears the screams of the panicking research staff.

She closes her eyes, both because there is nothing to see, but also to hone her other senses. Smell, hearing; even the feeling of vibrations in the floor as people walk by, and the movement of air against the fur on her bare arms.

Mentally she maps out the space, pinpointing her comrades, who have taken up a back-to-back diamond formation. She locates Entrapta by her grumbling that she can’t see her screens anymore.

And then, there’s a breeze that doesn’t correspond to footsteps, and a smell of raw wounds.

Catra spins lightning fast, planting a powerful heel kick in the direction she senses; it connects, and Shadow Weaver grunts.

In less than a heartbeat, Catra is on her. A wave of pain rushes over her, as Shadow Weaver tries her old control tricks, but horrible as it may be, it’s over-used at this point, and Catra’s new spine renders her effectively immune to the paralytic aspect of the spell.

She grasps a wrist and slams Shadow Weaver’s hand — the crippled one that has never healed right after Adora’s visit — into the floor, just for pain. With her other hand, Catra hooks her claws around Shadow Weaver’s mask, ripping it off and with it opening five little wounds where her claw-tips overshot and sunk into Shadow Weaver’s face.

The darkness vanishes. Catra puts her free hand around Shadow Weaver’s neck, claws digging into the flesh. “If you try to cast, I’ll rip out your windpipe.”

Then Catra drops the mask nonchalantly on the floor, draws a revolver, and shoots the Runestone fragment inlaid in the forehead of it. The stone shatters, and with it, the mask.

“ _NOO~!_ ” Shadow Weaver wails.

Catra drops her to the ground, and the distraught sorceress crawls to the mask, attempting to pick up the pieces and fit them together; a futile endeavor with only one good hand.

“You know, Shadow Weaver: all those years you spent inflicting terror and pain on me; you thought you were disciplining me, but really you were just teaching me all your predictable tricks.”

“ _Come back to me, precious,_ ” Shadow Weaver sobs, pushing the shards of the little crystal together into a pile on the floor.

“Scorpia, Rogelio,” Catra barks. “Take the sorceress into custody; remember to use mage cuffs, and make sure she’s handed over to the Chancellor’s Special Service.”

She picks up the handset off the floor, and calmly walks to the phone receiver, re-dialling the Chancellor.

“Hello; it’s me… Yes, she’s taken care of… I’ll see to it… Thank you; and to you as well.”

* * *

Adora shakes off the stunning blow. “What?! Why?”

Razz looks at Adora. “Oh, I see your mother in you, Adora.”

“Y— you knew my mother?”

“Why of course, Mara was your mother. Though you do take after that amalgamation of an artificial father the program cooked up for you. Mara made the right choice in spiriting you away from them.”

Adora has altogether too many questions.

“How am I here? How are you here? Mara died a thousand years ago.”

Razz coughs. “Mara, my smart girl, she knew they would come for us, so she opened a portal to sent us forward in time, you and I. But somewhere along the way, I lost you. I’m sorry, daughter-daughter. I’m sorry it took so long for us to meet. I was supposed to raise you, y’know?”

Adora runs a hand through her hair. She starts laughing. Answers, finally, and it couldn’t be any less what she wants to hear. “Just my luck, then,” she says, dabbing her eyes free of tears.

“Well, I may be old, and my memory may be going away on me, but you still have me,” Razz says.

“Why did Mara,” Adora says. “Why did she kill everyone?”

“She didn’t kill everyone,” Razz says, waving her hand. “She’s no monster. She made everyone _forget._ If no-one remembered what they were supposed to do, they couldn’t do the terrible awful thing they were going to do. And then she hid Etheria away, too.”

“And what was that terrible awful thing?”

“I remember there was talk of defeating a great enemy, and a great weapon, and Mara said there would be a _lot_ of collateral casualties, but I don’t know the specifics.”

Adora would be lying if a mental picture wasn’t starting to form. “Razz I—”

“Adora, my sweet girl, granny Razz is tired, and my memory is poor. You’ve caught me at a good time. Before you go, know this: Mara left you a lot of things. She wrote all this down, if you ever needed it.”

“Okay, where?”

Razz stays silent for a while. “I can’t recall. But I know she has a spacecraft, somewhere. Find that; I’m sure there’ll be clues. Now, you really must be on your way. You are She-Ra! No time for tea, yes?”

Adora stands. “No.”

“No?”

“No. Razz, if what you’re saying is true, and you really are my grandmother, then I am definitely not leaving you behind here to die in the cold.” Adora takes off her cloak. “For the honor of Grayskull, starlight is mine to command.”

They ride back to Brightmoon, Razz sitting in front of Adora on the steed. The old crone falls asleep on the halfway, as day becomes evening, and Adora lets her. The hut has no objects of value, which is in and of itself a little sad.

It’s a long time to come to terms with this revelation.

Suddenly, a lot of uncertainties fall into place. Adora’s unfettered childhood, the happenstance adoption into the Horde army, Shadow Weaver. A lot of questions suddenly have a why.

She’s not fighting a war against the Horde. She’s fighting a much older conflict, somehow. One against her own people. One against an unnamed, nebulous great enemy. In which the Horde is just a small facet.

It is beyond daunting, to suddenly have the rug of certainty pulled away, to reveal that what she once thought the end-all clash between good and evil, is a footnote.

She’s filled with determination; which has nowhere to go, ’cause there’s a long way to Brightmoon, even on mechanized horseback.

* * *

Hordak makes his entrance into the director’s office adjacent Black Garnet chamber.

Work is continuing on the project now on day six. The initial burst of activity and all-night caffeine fueled benders among the support engineers have passed, given over to routine workdays. Even Entrapta is beginning to adopt a more level-headed approach to her new toys.

Catra looks up from the desk. “Chancellor?” she says. “I wasn’t expecting you; I hope you didn’t send an advance notice that I missed.”

“No need for preemptive apologies, Captain,” he says. “Mind if I sit?”

Catra gestures to the empty chair. Hordak takes a seat, brushing aside his pin-striped coat tails and crossing his legs, letting one two-toned shoe dangle.

“I came on a social visit, and thought I might catch you for a private conversation.”

“A social— Ah, visiting your wife at work? Well, what can I help you with?”

“I have some concerns regarding Shadow Weaver.”

Catra pales a bit. “What— what do you mean? She’s in custody, for assault on state-sanctioned research staff.”

“Yes, it is not her sentencing that concerns me. It is informational hygiene.”

“Pardon?”

“Shadow Weaver is _very_ knowledgable both about Horde R&D, but also in terms of personal power. She is a high-risk prisoner, and therefore a liability. If she defects, and I have little reason to think she won’t, given her personality profile, she could leak catastrophic intel to the rebellion.”

“Oh yeah, that would be bad.”

“I do however realize she represents a tremendous asset in this capacity as well. Therefore I charge you with ensuring her imprisonment, extracting whatever relevant information can be extracted from her, and then seeing to her being exiled to Beast Island.”

Catra looks down at the paperwork she’s filling out. Requisition forms. There’s not much distraction to be had there.

“Before you object, I know you two were close; but I’m afraid it is not up for negotiation.”

Catra snorts. “Close? Chancellor, that woman made my life a living hell from I was seven until I got stationed at the front. Seeing her in jail is the single greatest entertainment.”

“Good. Then, proceed with the plan I have outlined.”

* * *

“Hey Bow! Visitor!”

Bow wakes with a start. His back protests this newfound habit of sleeping at the workbench; though he is finally nearing the theoretical limitations of what a lodestone can track. He will either need a stronger lodestone, or a radically new approach.

He turns to see Captain Killigan, the large mothfolk woman who used to be Wolfclaw’s right-hand. It is the dead of night outside.

“One second,” he says to her.

Whatever it is, it is important. Bow puts on his gloves and slings the cloak over his shoulders.

Stepping outside into the biting chill, he sees a familiar sight.

“Adora? What are you doing here?”

She-Ra has arrived, on her uncanny silver steed.

“Hey Bow. I have a favor to ask.”

Bow turns his attention to the figure sitting in front of Adora on the mechanical horse.

“What can I do for you?”

“I need somewhere for Razz here to live. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and I think she might do well with your dads; at least from what I’ve heard.”

Bow walks up to them, and spies under the hem of the cloak, the face of the old lady, sleeping.

“Sure, but who is she?”

“Near as I can tell, she’s my long-lost grandmother. It’s a _long_ story, and I don’t have all the pieces. She’s mildly senile, and possibly in danger. She needs somewhere safe and quiet, and I think she’s lived the last eighteen years of her life in the woods, so…”

Bow blinks, and absent anything to say to this, he simply pivots onto the practicalities. “We have a couple of spare bunks; stay here for tonight, I’ll cook you something to eat. We go in the morning.”


	7. And With Them, Maidens Two

There’s a knock on the door, and George goes to open. He and Lance stay out of the main library these days, as it simply isn’t possible to heat the large rooms; and fire is always a hazard around books. Even just the adjoining domicile is a little too large for just two men — used to be they were thirteen.

“Bow?!”

Outside in the snow, stands Bow in his ranger garb. There’s a pair of horses off to the side, and a young woman tying them to a post. Sitting on one of the horses is a hunched figure in a heavy cloak.

“Hey dad,” Bow says.

George pulls his son into a very fatherly hug.

“To what do I owe this unannounced visit?”

Bow waves Adora over. “Dad, this is Adora. Adora, George.”

“Charmed,” Adora says, shaking George’s hand.

“And who’s this?” George asks, pointing to the last figure.

“That is technically my grandmother,” Adora says.

George pauses. “ _Technically?_ ”

“We’re here to ask a favor,” Bow says. “She’s a little old lady who’s been living alone the last fifteen plus years in the Whispering Woods. Adora ran into her by chance, and saved her from freezing to death after her back gave out. She needs a place to stay; temporary.”

George rubs his brow. “I’ll go get Lance.”

“Lance?” Adora asks.

“My other dad,” Bow explains.

“Y— you can have two dads?” Adora asks, bewildered.

“You’re dating Glimmer, Adora. You’ve been on a week-long mission with Spinnerella and Netossa.”

“Yeah but—”

Bow sighs. “If it helps ease your mind, there was a woman who gave birth to me, but I never knew her, and she died when I was an infant.”

Adora stiffens. “Sorry for prying,” she mutters.

“No harm done,” Bow says.

George returns with Lance.

“Dear, why is our son and his friend standing out in the snow?” Lance says. “And you’re letting out all the warm air.”

George doesn’t say anything, but just points at Razz, still mounted.

Razz waves back.

“Bow wants to know if we’re up for caring for the elderly,” George says.

Lance grabs a coat from the rack next to the door, and a pair of waxed galoshes standing under it, then steps out, grabs a footstool, and heads up to Razz. “Let’s get you down from there, ma’am,” he says.

“Oh what a nice young man you are.”

With some help, Razz dismounts, and ends up sitting on the footstool. “Sorry, dearie, I’m not good with standing up; it’s my back.”

“George,” Lance calls. “Go get the crutches!”

George nods and disappears inside.

“So you’ll do it?” Bow asks.

“Is that a question?” Lance says.

“But you don’t even know who she is,” Adora protests.

“We have a big empty house, a full root cellar, and only each other for conversation out here,” Lance says to Adora, “and you come here with a _lovely young lady,_ —” he says pointedly to Razz, who giggles, “— in need of emergency accommodation? No questions asked. My son trusts you, so I trust you. Lance, by the way,” he says and holds out a hand.

“Adora,” Adora says, and shakes it.

“Now, who are you, and what is your relation to each other and my son? I ask without reproach; just curiosity.”

“Well,” Adora says, “I’m a friend. And this lady is my long lost grandmother.”

“I have a name!” Razz calls out. “It’s Razzelda! But handsome young men get to call me Razz!”

Lance laughs.

* * *

With crutches, Razz has almost full mobility — her strength is still there, it’s only her back that is the problem.

Were they in a Hordeland hospital, an X-ray would show that she has suffered a lumbar compression fracture. It’s an unfortunate fact of age-related osteoporosis.

Inside the kitchen, George stokes the fire in the stove, and Lance closes the door.

“So,” Lance says. “Is there anything else we should know? Razz? Adora?”

“She’s senile,” Adora says. “I’m not sure how bad it is.”

“Razz?” Lance asks.

Razz looks up from admiring the flower vase on the table; currently sporting a branch of an evergreen.

“This is a very nice copy, but there’s a misspelling in the brand name.” She points to the squiggly First-Ones’ glyp.

“Pardon?” Lance asks.

“This here?” Razz points to a triangle. “The voicing dot is missing; it’s supposed to be an ‘ _Ezh_ ’ not an ‘ _Esh_ ’ and— is it hand made?”

Lance is silent and wide-eyed. Even George has stopped in the middle of making tea.

“Sorry, sorry; pottery was my great passion when I was young.”

“You— you can _read_ that?” George asks.

“Why just because I’m a potter doesn’t mean I’d be illiterate,” Razz says.

Lance looks over at Bow and Adora.

“Oh, right,” Adora says, scratching her neck. “Did I not tell you? She’s actually a First-One. There’s some time-travel involved; I think. We’re actually both First-Ones. I can read it too.”

George hikes up his sleeve. “What does this say?” He shows the tattoo running the full-length of his arm.

“Uh,” Adora says. “Well, it’s not really directly translatable. I’d say ‘Beloved’?”

Razz giggles. “Literally, yes, it means one who recieves love. However what people mean when they say it, is _promiscuous woman._ ”

Lance breaks down in guffaws.

* * *

There’s a loud blaring of a klaxon, signalling the opening of the main mantrap gate.

The heavy barred gate closes behind Catra, and the guard opens the corresponding one in front of her.

“Right this way Specialist Captain,” the Warden says; a Sasquatch with a very neatly trimmed beard.

They set off down the hall.

“Is the prisoner secure?” she asks.

“Our mage-killer cells have been designed by the Sorcery Division to be impossible to escape by sorcerous means.”

“I hope the irony of imprisoning the former director of the Sorcery Division in one of these cells is not lost on you, Chief Warden.”

“That it is not, ma’am. Shadow Weaver may have had a hand in the design of her cell, but that still leaves her in the center of a maximum security prison. We have guards with dogs and machine pistols; guard towers with machine guns; and twelve-hundred yards of no man’s land between her and freedom.”

It still might not be enough, but Catra doesn’t say that out loud. She knows Hordak will see it as a failure of hers if it isn’t.

“She’s the only prisoner on the cell block.”

“Good. We might need privacy.”

They turn a corner, and the cells are laid out down the hall.

“Just down there, ma’am. I’mma turn back here. To be frank, that woman gives me the creeps.”

Catra waves him off. Then she starts down the hallway. The cells face the hallway with two-inch thick walls of glass laminate, with a row of finger-sized ventilation holes drilled through across the top near the ceiling. Each cell has its own one-man mantrap made of solid steel, with inch-thick doors.

“Hey, asshole.”

Shadow Weaver looks… She doesn’t look like the menacing larger-than-life figure who once made a career out of terrorizing little girls and her research staff alike.

Her hair is greasy, and no longer flows with supernatural power. Her eyes are red, either from tears or infection, which under cuts the strange otherworldly patterns in her irises. Her skin is pale and sickly rather than deathly gray, and her scars are raw. The jumpsuit is ill-fitting; no shoes, no belt.

As Catra looks on, Shadow Weaver coughs into her hand and it comes away speckled with black phlegm. Now more so than ever, it is evident that age and karma is catching up to the sorceress.

“Hey, I’m speaking to you.”

Shadow Weaver looks over at Catra. “I’m not deaf. I just don’t want to talk to you. Leave me to die in peace.”

Catra frowns. She opens the door to the mantrap, and digs out of her satchel two items: a pair of mage-killer cuffs, and a quartz crystal charged with magical energy. She puts both on the floor and closes the door, then pulls the lever that opens the inner door.

“Get yourself fixed up, and put on the shackles. There’s a courtyard at the end of the hallway, and I thought maybe you’d like to see the sky one last time.”

Shadow Weaver rises from the bed and shambles into the mantrap, picking up the crystal. She closes her eyes and immediately the soft glow of the crystal winks out.

“There. Feel any better?”

Shadow Weaver grunts, and complies.

The cuffs are heavy manacles covering the entire lower arm designed to render the hands unusable for the fine gesture work needed for casting. Once on, spring-loaded parts inside activate, pressing against nerves, tendons, and muscles in the arm, and the manacles cannot be removed without the key. They are painful to wear, and with extended use can cause circulatory issues.

To complement them, there is a collar with a battery-powered vibrator pressed against the throat, to impede singing and speech.

Shadow Weaver designed both.

Catra operates the mantrap, and Shadow Weaver steps into the hallway.

They walk in silence to the small courtyard. The sunshine doesn’t reach to the ground-level, but the air is fresh — at least for being in the industrial heartlands near the Fright Zone — and the sky is clear.

There’s a table with four chairs bolted to the ground.

“So, here’s the deal. You’re going to Beast Island.”

Shadow Weaver scoffs. “When?”

“Does it matter? Beast Island is a death sentence, the labor camp there is just an excuse so the Council can claim we don’t have a death penalty.”

“Yeah; I’ve read the file too. That is, if I don’t die first,” Shadow Weaver says; her voice strangely modulated by the collar.

“Oh you won’t, I’ll see to that. I know about your little magic addiction,” Catra replies.

“Delaying the inevitable. You really do care.”

“Listen, give me something — _anything_ — that’ll let me convince Hordak you’re worth keeping around.”

“I’ve already given that man far too much.”

Catra rests her elbows on the table, fingers digging into her hair. “Do you _want_ to die, idiot?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No!”

“Sometimes we have to learn to let go, kitten.”

Catra growls. “Don’t talk down to me; I _put_ you here.”

“And now you regret it.”

“It’s going to be such a fucking relief when you do kick the bucket and I never have to worry about this bullshit ever again.”

“Spoken like someone I’m proud to call my daughter,” Shadow Weaver says.

Catra looks at her. “Don’t push it.”

Shadow Weaver giggles, which turns into a coughing fit.

“Listen,” she says. “I’m a goner either way, and staring death in the face has made me sentimental. Could you get me my old Sorcerers’ Guild emblem? I would like to reminisce.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Shadow Weaver leans forward. She reaches out and brushes a lock of hair away from Catra’s face. “It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you. Consider it a dying wish.”

Catra gets up, and grabs Shadow Weaver by the shoulder, dragging her back to her cell, shoving her in the mantrap, and tossing a key in after her.

One the way out of the prison, she can’t help but fiddle with that lock of hair.

* * *

From the Hidden Library to the Crystal Castle is shorter than returning to the Brightmoon-side outposts, but not by much. Bow guides Adora there, before splitting off to the south to join up with Killigan’s troupe.

Adora heads inside, shifting into She-Ra as she does, manifesting — after some prodding and asking very specific questions — a non-lethal directed-energy weapon that projects a wave of force.

There’s no sign of Catra inside. In retrospect was a _huge_ oversight to allow her free roam of the facility.

“`Administrator detected: Welcome She-Ra. Authorized. What is your query?`”

“I would like to revoke Catra’s privileges to access this facility.”

“`Acknowledged. Which level of privilege is desired?`”

“None.”

“`Acknowledged. Deleting user 'Catra.' Complete.`”

“Do you have records of what people have done?”

“`User logs are accessible to all administrators.`”

“I would like to know what Catra did, last time she was here.”

“`Deleted user 'Catra' accessed Storage Room two-alpha, to requisition several items.`”

“Which items?”

“`Logging of requisitions is done by the requisitions officer.`”

“When was the requisitions officer here last?”

“`Three-hundred sixty-four thousand two hundred and eleven days ago.`”

Great. Of course. Standard bureaucratic inefficiency.

“Summon the elevator down to Light Hope.”

“`Acknowledged.`”

The elevator ride is just as long as last time, but feels much longer without… Company.

Adora steps out into deep darkness.

“ _Light Hope?!_ ” she yells.

“`Hello Adora.`”

Adora jumps at the sound to her side. And there is Light Hope, all blue-skinned and wearing the gaping void of space on her upper body.

“Hello. I’ve found out how to channel starlight. Can you teach me how to heal with it?”

“`I cannot provide direct instruction on that subject.`”

Adora groans. “Great.”

“`However, I can provide effigy patients and damaged environs which records indicate have benefitted your predecessors immensely.`”

The scene changes to something that is obviously an infirmary, as indicated by the bed with a patient in it, but filled with dozens of machines that Adora doesn’t recognize. The patient is… Nonspecific. As if trying to focus on her features makes one’s attention wander and miss all the pertinent details.

“`Patient suffers from systemic infection, presenting with high fever.`”

Adora reverts to her human form, and sits on the bed. “Hey,” she says. “Everything will be all-right.”

“`Are you conversing with the patient?`”

“Yes.”

“`Apologies, I have not simulated social interactions. Would you like me to play the role?`”

“No, no. That’s fine.”

Adora takes a deep breath, and summons the starlight. A stout little globe of gentle radiance.

“`Very good.`”

“Shut up.”

“`Apologies.`”

Adora lets herself relax and thinks back to all her friends. It’s a short list: Glimmer, and Bow.

The light grows a little brighter.

Well, Glimmer is more than a friend.

And then there’s the other princesses; comrades in arms of a sort. Always supportive Spinnerella, and Netossa who still insists they organize more drills. Queen Angella’s gentle mentorship and concern for her well-being.

Then there’s the quiet admiration she was told Frosta has for her; the cool-tempered girl seeing her as a mentor figure. There’s Perfuma who cares about everyone, and especially anyone who’s a friend of Bow. There’s Mermista, with her aloof and oblique mothering, and Peekablue’s professional appreciation of her pragmatic leadership style.

There’s Cometa, who genuinely tries to make up for her failings, and who forged the shield She-Ra carries on her back.

The light between her hand dances and undulates, and grows whiter still.

There’s Razz, and all their lost time, who despite her failing health wants nothing more than to unconditionally love her granddaughter.

And then… Then there’s all the people she left behind. Good people, misguided people. Those she has to believe may someday realise the error in their ways and change sides. Because that is what Adora did.

Catra.

The break of dawn itself rests between her hands.

A tear rolls down her cheek.

“It’s going to be all-right,” she mutters.

Then, lacking any concrete plan, she pushes the light into the torso of the effigy. Adora projects all her love, all her sympathy, into it.

The pain she feels every time she recalls that there’s soldiers out there getting killed for no reason other than some generals deciding it’s acceptable losses.

The pain she came upon, when she one day realized that there were more street-kids like Catra, who all deserved to be taken in.

The pain she knows Shadow Weaver caused her… Her best friend.

The pain that makes her want to scream, for all the wrongs in the world.

“`You seem to be in distress.`”

“ _Shut up light hope,_ ” Adora whispers.

“`I'm concerned, because you have just successsfully restored the patient to health. Are you hurt?`”

Adora opens her eyes, blinking way the tears. The soul-less hand of the effigy is no longer burning up with fever.

* * *

“Hey. Wake up.”

Shadow Weaver starts awake. Her bad hand throbs with pain as it always does when her heart beats fast. She sits on the bunk bed to see Catra outside the glass of the cell.

“Hello, Catra.”

Catra is carrying a tray full of food.

“I pulled some strings, got you a nice meal.”

“I’m too sick to eat anything these days,” Shadow Weaver says.

“Yeah, I got that covered too.” She holds up a pipe. “Longleaf pipeweed. Stimulates appetite, quells nausea, dulls pain.”

Shadow Weaver raises an eyebrow.

“Then there’s a crystal, of course; they are going to be giving you those regularly from now on. And I know you don’t like to show your face, so…” She holds up a veil and a headband.

Shadow Weaver stands up from the bed. “Thank you. To what do I owe this undeserved kindness?”

Catra puts the tray in the mantrap, lights the pipe, and pulls the lever. “I was hoping to talk.”

Shadow Weaver picks up the crystal, draining it instantly, then hangs the veil over her nose and mouth, tying it under her messy, greasy hair; before tying the headband to cover her forehead. She picks up the lit pipe, and takes a draw of it. It disagrees with her cough, but the soothing effect is almost instantaneous.

“What do you want to know?”

Catra leans against the wall opposite the cell. She exhales, gathering nerve. “Why… Why did you treat me the way you did? Why was I never good enough for you?” She looks up, making eye-contact. “Really, I wanna know.”

Shadow Weaver coughs a little. "Because you remind me of myself. You always have. Nothing was ever easy for me either; you will never hear of a street kid who makes it from the gutters to the halls of Mystacor; and yet that’s what I did. I wasn’t born to power, my talent for sorcery was middling at best. Every scrap of power and influence I have ever held, I have fought my way into. Ruthless cunning alone has made me arguably the most powerful sorceress to walk Etheria in this age.

“I didn’t want to spoil that for you. If Adora, blessed idiot, was ever to become useful to the Horde, she would need someone to guide her in my absence. Someone I could trust to be as ruthless and cunning as I, and to operate from the shadows where golden-haired soldiers who follow orders don’t dare to tread.”

“I was a _child._ What could I have possibly done to deserve the way you treated me? You _used_ my suffering like a blunt instrument to get Adora to heel! I am _nothing_ like you; old, bitter, and weak.”

Shadow Weaver takes a long drag on the pipe. “Ah, but you are like me. And just like me, your power and position are precariously balanced on a knife’s edge, between obeisance and your own goals. You’ve already been demoted once.”

Catra crosses her arms. “I’m still a captain; I’ll prove my worth yet.”

“I will not apologize for what I did. I wanted you to be strong, and it is obvious that you are plenty strong now.”

Shadow Weaver stands, slowly walks to the glass separating them, and puts a hand on it.

“Come here,” she says.

Catra steps forward, apprehensively, and puts her hand on the glass as well.

“You know what; I’ll try. I’ll try to think something up that will justify my continued service to Hordak. But for now… For now I’ll try not to let this meal you brought me go to waste, and then see if that can’t help me get some rest. Thank you, Catra. Come back later. Please.”


	8. Shadow, Fear

Spring comes to Brightmoon and the Whispering Woods. One day, a warm wind blows up from the south, and the sun’s heat takes hold of the frozen land.

“It’s over this ridge,” Perfuma says.

Bow, Killigan, and six other rangers follow her. She’s dressed in a sheepskin coat flying open, over a pink one-piece dress — which Bow knows she favors — and a pair of sandals. The rangers are all still in winter-cloaks, full gambeson, and heavy boots; the full winter-gear.

They are about two days on foot north of plumeria, where the snow piles still lie amidst puddles of melt-water.

They round the ridge, and come upon a sapping operation. Tree after tree with taps from which buckets hang.

“Moonshine?” Killigan asks.

“Oh, you bet,” Perfuma says enthusiastically, “but…”

She stops by the nearest tapped tree, and takes the bucket off. It is empty.

“Around this time, we’d have dozens of buckets-full. But there’s just… Nothing.”

“Worrying,” Bow concurs.

* * *

“She’s over there,” Lance says, pointing.

Razz is sitting on a chair put against the wall of the library itself; the south-turned one that gets enough sun to nurture the spice bushes growing against it.

Adora thanks him, and takes a deep breath. It’s never easy. _For the honor of Grayskull, starlight is mine to command._ She doesn’t even have to speak it aloud these days; sub-vocalization suffices.

“Oh!” Razz calls out. “Mara! Good to see you dearie.”

It’s overall less painful for the old woman to see She-Ra first.

“Hello, Razz,” Adora says. “But I’m not Mara.”

“Nonsense, dearie; who else would you be? There’s only one She-Ra!” She giggles.

“Razz, I’m Adora, Mara’s daughter. Mara died a long time ago,” Adora says and reverts.

Razz looks at Adora for a beat. “I— I remember you. You’re little Adora. Last I saw you, you were just a swaddled babe. I… I was supposed to keep you safe, but I lost you.”

“It’s okay, Razz,” Adora says, taking her hand. “It wasn’t your fault. How have you been?”

Razz snorts. “Since this morning, very well. Before ereyesterday? I don’t recall.”

“How is it to live here with George and Lance?”

“Oh the hosts? They are very nice young men. Handsome and gentle.” She giggles. “They are so sweet together — ah, to be young and in love.”

Adora smiles. “How is your back?”

“Oh with crutches I manage. But George works in the herb garden and I wish I could help. And Lance in the kitchen too. It’s so terribly boring to sit around all day. Even if the weather is nice.”

Adora nods. “Well, Razz. I’ve been learning something new as She-Ra. How to heal. May I try to heal your back?”

Razz perks up. “That would be wonderful.”

“I can’t guarantee it will work.”

Adora calls upon the starlight.

It does work. Razz spends the rest of the day in the garden with George. And while Adora leaves, and doesn’t see it happen, over the next week, Razz gets a little bit better. Six days hence, she comes down to breakfast, greeting George and Lance by name.

Adora doesn’t return for a _long time._

* * *

Queen Angella’s daily schedule is a walking nightmare, but today she has managed to sneak in an informal lunch.

Glimmer, Adora, Netossa, and Spinnerella all have open schedules. Unfortunately the weather is inclement. A heavy fog has driven in from the sea. Still, that is no reason not to eat on the terrace.

Today’s lunch is ragout of pheasant.

“Are all of you appraised of the situation?” the Queen asks. There’s a round of nods. “If so, I would like to open for discussion on what other initiatives me may take to prepare us for for the war.”

“Actually, I have something,” Adora says. “I would like to pull on the Runestone Wielders to do some drilling together as a team. As far as I know, every member of the alliances has generals capable of directing the war effort in the absence of their respective Princesses.”

“I support this,” Netossa says. “The rescue operation for Princess Glimmer was most fruitful, in my reckoning because of our collaboration.”

“Yes, but also it comes from a tactical consideration of mine,” Adora continues. “There _will_ be Horde assets which our armies cannot capture or destroy. In order to disable these we absolutely need force multipliers like Runestone abilities or victory will be plainly outside our grasp.”

Angella nods. “I shall mobilize the diplomats to this end; I support the motion—”

There’s a knock on the door. “—Enter?” Queen Angella calls out.

In comes none other than Bow. “Your Majesty, your highnesses, officer.”

“What news from the field, Ranger?” Netossa asks.

“The Horde has set the Whispering Woods on fire.”

There’s a round of confused looks, but Queen Angella realizes the implication. “That is supposedly impossible, the living trees are resistant to immolation, are they not?”

“Yes,” Bow says. “The sap of the Whispering Oak is fire-retardant. However, last week I was on an expedition with the Princess of Plumeria, who wished to report that there is no sap flowing in the majority of the trees.”

“So this is how it begins,” Angella says. “They plan to burn a path through the forest. How fast is the fire spreading?”

“Less than a mile per hour. Perfuma is working on making a fire-gap to the south. It would seem the fire originates near where Thaymor used to be; where the forest span is narrowest.”

“They’ll need to clear space to move troops through,” Adora says. “Maybe even lay roads for expedient logistics. We have time to dig in.”

“I assume the generals are already being informed?” Queen Angella asks.

“Yes, your majesty. Captain Killigan has sent for the war council to assemble.”

There is another knock.

“Bow, if you would?” the Queen asks.

He opens, and a servant peeks in. “Letter for Princess Glimmer.”

Bow takes it, and Glimmer rises from her seat. She reaches for an extra bowl. “Ragout?”

“Yes please,” Bow says, coming over.

They trade bowl for letter, and Glimmer breaks the Salinean seal. She reads it quickly. “Oh no.”

“What is?” Spinnerella asks.

“Empress Mermista has given birth; the child is not likely to survive — she has a severe cleft lip and cannot nurse.”

Adora springs up. “I need to get to Salineas; I’m fairly certain I can heal that child. Permission to use the waygate?”

“I’ll send you off,” Glimmer says. They both rush for the door, and as they open it, reveal a royal guard and Castaspella.

“Princess; Adora,” she greets.

“I’m sorry aunt Casta,” Glimmer says, “we need to go. It’s an emergency.”

Castaspella looks after them, then turns to the door. “Permission to enter?”

“Come in, sister-in-law,” Queen Angella says. “What interruption do you bring to my lunch?”

“Ah. This actually concerned those two—” she gestures after Adora and Glimmer “— we have caught a trespasser at the City border. Or rather, she gave herself up.”

“Who is it?” the Queen asks, impatiently.

“An old enemy of ours. Shadow Weaver.”

* * *

Catra is woken by a hammering on the door to her apartment. She’s hung-over, and badly in need of a bath. She throws on a robe for decency, and goes to get the door.

Rubbing the sand from her eyes, she opens up.

“What can I do for—”

Outside the door is four armed men in Special Services uniforms. “Madam Captain, if you would follow us, please.”

Catra looks them over. She could probably take these four in particular, but not the reinforcements that would follow. “Do I have a choice?”

“Chancellor Hordak requests your presence.”

She grabs her keys and steps outside, locking the door. “This better be important,” she grumbles.

They lead her down the stairs and out to the street, to a limousine. “Get in.”

She does. The interior is immaculate, as always, and Hordak sits opposite her, primly dressed.

“Captain Catra,” he says.

“Chancellor Hordak,” she replies. She digs through the pockets in her robe, finding her lighter and a cheroot. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I mind.”

She puts the lighter away but the cheroot between her lips. “What can I do for you?”

“I have received news that sit ill with me. From the Wardens at the Realm’s Correctional, from several sources within the military police, and from a border patrol.”

Catra raises an eyebrow.

“Shadow Weaver has escaped custody, and was last seen by a border patrol, almost eight hundred miles away from her cell, heading into the Whispering Woods. I presume she is returning to Mystacor, perhaps to die.”

Catra’s eyes go wide. “That’s impossible!”

“Is it? From what I hear you have been visiting her regularly.”

“Three times,” Catra corrects. “I went to establish a rapport. I was hoping to help her realize that she could prove her usefulness to you yet, and avoid exile.”

“I specifically told you—”

“Yes, I know! ‘I’m afraid this is not up for negotiation,’ can you blame me for trying to retain a potentially valuable asset?!”

“I thought you didn’t care for Shadow Weaver.”

“Well I was _lying,_ obviously!”

Hordak pauses. “To me, there is a certain merit in seeking the approval of those who hurt you the most.”

Catra raises both eyebrows, wondering quietly what kind of asinine philosophy this man is about to spout.

“Still,” he continues. “I’m disappointed in you Catra. Do not make me further regret employing you.”

“Yeah, no shit. Next time? Send the busboy up with a letter. Your little power play of having four soldiers apprehend me in my morning robe is just childish.”

She opens the door, and steps out of the limo.

It doesn’t take more than putting two and two together for Catra to realize that she aided and abetted Shadow Weaver’s escape from custody. Whatever that guild emblem actually was, it provided her a means to escape at least the prison, if not also detection while underway; as well as possibly a means of transportation. The Whispering Woods is _not_ nearby.

She gets back to her apartment and steps in on dirtied bare feet.

That bitch. Strung her along just so she could escape. Balanced on a knife’s edge, yeah right, and Shadow Weaver just gave her a push on purpose.

Catra looks at her hand, the one she put on the glass; her other one seeks out the lock of hair Shadow Weaver brushed aside.

Rage fills every fiber of her being, and an empty liqueur bottle is what’s there for her to take it out on. It puts a dent in the cheap drywall and shatters on the floor.

She lights her cheroot, and spends a few minutes just leaning on the wall and smoking her nerves away.

Then she hits the shower and gets dressed. Half-heeled boots, leather full of scuff-marks on the outside and claw-marks on the inside. Trousers worn thin along the seams. Red uniform jacket with a bullet hole on the sleeve.

A snub-nosed revolver on the belly, one in the boot. A long slender target-shooter in the armpit, and two beefy large-bore six-shooter magnums, one on either hip, holstered for left-handed shooting.

A hatchet on the small of her back, a stiletto on the right forearm under a concealed protective brace, and a push dagger in the other boot.

Stripper clips of ammo in belt pouches, lanyard with ID, and…

She opens the closet and digs out the box of old junk she keeps around. There, inside is a gift. A forehead protector; historical replica — traditional warrior garb of the Magicat Empire. The first nation to become part of the Hordelands, over a hundred years ago. A war that displaced so many feliform folk that they are today known as a diasporic race.

Shadow Weaver gave her that. To this day, she doesn’t understand why.

It fits perfectly.

She shoves the magical gloves in a pocket and forgets about them for the rest of the day.

* * *

Glimmer and She-Ra arrive in Salineas quite unannounced, which causes some commotion for the guards posted in the Salinean waygate chamber.

“Halt! Who goes there?” says the guard captain. A graying dark-skinned human woman, clad in armor painted in the color of the wine-dark sea.

“Princess Glimmer of Brightmoon and She-Ra,” Glimmer says. “Please take us to the Empress post-haste.” She brandishes the letter. “I have heard the grave news of the newborn heiress’ health, and I have brought likely the only person in the Alliance who may save the child.”

That gets them where they need to go. They are led out of the waygate chamber, into the ornate gardens of the palace grounds, and then inside the opulent multi-story building. Unlike the Brightmoon palace, the Salinean royal palace is recent; rebuilt after the previous one sustained irreparable damage in the Salinean-Candilanic wars, only a few decades ago.

The floor with the private suite is completely blocked off by royal guards, and a commander who outranks the captain leading them stops them there.

“I cannot allow anyone to see the Empress, she has specifically requested so.”

Glimmer steps directly within his personal sphere. “This is _She-Ra,_ the defender of all Etheria, and personal friend of the Empress. I am Princess Glimmer of Brightmoon, _sworn sister_ to the Empress. Who the fuck are _you_ to stop us?!”

“I— Er—”

Glimmer takes Adora by the hand, and shoves the guard commander aside.

They reach the ornate double-doors to the private suite, and Glimmer gingerly knocks.

There’s a long pause before Sea Hawk opens up, looking haggard and morose. He blinks in surprise. “Why, Princess Glimmer, Adora— She-Ra. An unexpected pleasure, but now is not really a good time.”

“We know,” Glimmer says. She holds up the letter. “I heard.”

“Sea Hawk, I think I can help your daughter,” Adora says.

Many adjectives describe Sea Hawk, but indecisive is not one. He opens the door fully and waves them inside. The lounge is as lavish as it is unimportant, and Sea Hawk hurries them to the master bedroom.

Blood-stained sheets and rags lie in a pile in the corner; there’s a faint smell of vomit and excrement which the cleaning staff hasn’t had time to scrub away. The main bed is covered in blue silk sheets, and the opulence of pillows has been arranged in a sort of nest for Mermista to sit in, cradling her most precious daughter.

She looks worse than Sea Hawk by a mile. Pallor showing through her dark complexion, her hair frizzed and undone, and eyes that have born the brunt of too much crying.

Adora kicks off the white boots, and casts off her jacket and battle skirt, leaving her only in a white bodysuit much like the first time she transformed. She crawls into the bed, and kneels before Mermista.

“Let me see her,” she says quietly.

Mermista lifts herself to sitting, shaking with the exertion. She holds out the child, partially wrapped in a blanket, and Adora hesitates. She has never held a newborn. “How do I—”

“Hold her head,” Mermista says with a voice hoarse from crying.

The girl is the smallest human being Adora has ever seen; miniscule limbs, and an overly large head. The umbilical has been cut and tied off with string, and her skin is greasy still. She barely has anything resembling an upper lip; instead there is a gash.

She’s not stirring much either. Her eyes are sunken with dehydration. It has been a day since she was born. She looks at Adora.

She’s ugly. All babes are, save in the eyes of those that love them; if there ever was a case of being blinded by love, it surely is this.

“ _Hey, beautiful,_ ” Adora whispers. “ _Everything is going to be all right._ ”

It’s easier than ever to bring out the starlight, and it is easier than ever to let it build and build and build.

Mermista shields her eyes. In the streets outside, the passersby wonder why the noonday sun shines from within the royal palace.

And then the glow fades until it’s possible to see. The little girl grunts and squeals.

She has the dark complexion of her parents, save for her upper lip, and one side of her nose, which is devoid of all color, unearthly pale.

Adora hands her gingerly back to Mermista, who’s already quietly crying. Adora puts a hand on Mermista’s shoulder and lets the light flow into her as well; purging the toll of childbirth, and the tip of her fatigue.

Mermista holds her daughter close, and her tears flow freely. Adora starts to pull away, only for Mermista’s strong hand to catch her by the shoulder, and then the neck. She pulls Adora in until their foreheads touch.

“ _Thank you,_ ” she whispers, and lets go, turning her attention back to the baby.

Adora looks down at the little thing, and strokes her cheek with a gentle finger. Mermista, unconcerned with indecency, pulls her blouse away and starts trying to get her to feed, which happens readily.

They sit there, together for an indeterminable time, Mermista in the blissful relief of having avoided the worst tragedy imaginable to a new mother, Adora caught in the wonder of the miracle of life.

“I—” Mermista says, and clears her throat. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to name her Adora.”

* * *

Queen Angella descends the steps into the dungeon. Cold stone, limewashed white, surrounds her, and she conjures a simple light for guidance.

Six guards in armor, armed with swords and muskets stand outside the heavy wooden door to the cell in question. One of them steps forward to unlock and open for the Queen and Castaspella.

Inside the spacious cell is a glowing circular diagram, drawn as large as the space allows, and with an unimaginable level of intricacy, larger symbols written in lines that upon inspection are composed not of solid light but of smaller symbols themselves.

There’s a simple wooden chair sitting in the center, and on it, a _svartalf_ woman with her face covered, dressed in a filthy and ruined jumpsuit.

“Hello, your Majesty,” Shadow Weaver says. “I must say I see the family resemblance wither your daughter.”

“Be silent!” Castaspella says. “Shadow Weaver, your hour of reckoning has come; you will answer for your crimes against Mystacor, and the atrocities you have willingly participated in from within the Horde!”

Shadow Weaver chuckles. “I suppose I will.”

“What do you find amusing, sorceress?” Angella asks.

“I’ve come to bargain for my life. As you may deduce from the state of my dress, I have fallen out of favor with my former sponsor, Chancellor Hordak. I appear before you a humble refugee from persecution.”

“Pull the other one,” Castaspella says.

Angella holds up a hand to quiet her. “You were a high ranking member of the Horde military were you not?”

“ _De jure,_ no, _de facto,_ yes. For the past twenty-five years, I have amused myself with being the director of what Hordak calls his Sorcery Division. I have designed many of the anti-sorcery and anti-Runestone weapons you will be facing in the upcoming conflict, and I know what Hordak’s current plan is.”

Angella gives a moment’s pause, to feign consideration; but there is no consideration. She absolutely needs whatever information this woman can give. “What are your demands?”

“Imprisonment in comfort, access to a source of magical power to satisfy the demands of my magically altered body, and… I want to speak to Adora. In fact, I shall only convey my intel to her.”

“Granted. If you ever step out of line, I’ll have you put to the irons, beheaded, and fed to dogs. No, actually, dogs are too fine creatures for your remains. You shall be fed to rats and crows.”

Shadow Weaver bows her head. “As her Majesty commands.”


	9. Old Scores, New Wings

The sky is red at noon.

The Whispering Woods are dead; or at the very least dying. Gas-mask clad Horde soldiers in heavy fire-proofed raincoats walk through the cinders with gas-burners and napalm projectors, restarting flame fronts where they peter out. Others carry axes to break open charred trunks, revealing flammable heartwood.

Miles farther inland, caterpillar-tread tractors with fixed blade scoops crush the charred remains of trees and scrape the dirt away to make level surfaces. Behind them, digging crews cut drainage ditches, and behind them road rollers compact the road bed and truck convoys carrying crushed stone and gravel pave it.

As the fire front moves south, additional road-laying operations begin; one every few miles.

Lieutenant Colonel Cobalt is quite pleased with the progress. A hundred miles behind him, the invasion force lies in waiting. A two hundred thousand young men and women, armed and ready to subjugate Brightmoon; and those are only the shock troops, supported by light armor and the new aerial attack groups.

* * *

The glow on the horizon is visible like a second, horrifying sunrise.

A mile from the treeline, the earth has been turned more thoroughly than this land has ever seen. A hundred thousand Brightmoon soldiers armed with shovels and pickaxes, have been working every day shift to dig over fifty miles of layered trenches.

The treeline itself is artificial, as twenty thousand more soldiers armed with axes and saws have been cutting grievously into the dead forest, lumber for trench construction and defensive baffles: gigantic caltrops to impede armored vehicles, and just plain fences to impede infantry.

Adora has been petitioning the Candilan smiths to try their hands at barbed wire, but it will not arrive in quantities until late spring.

What hey have, is breech loader small-arms. As fast as shipments come, they re-train the soldiers with the new superior weapons. They also standardized on the new mobile four-inch muzzle-loader howitzers two years ago, and contrary to cannons, those perform well when dug in.

And if all else goes south, they have the power of a half-dozen princesses on their side.

* * *

Adora and Glimmer arrive back in Brightmoon’s waygate vestibule.

They have only been gone for an hour or so. Enough to go to Salineas, perform a miracle, do away with formalities, and return to let the new parents enjoy themselves.

“You’ve been quiet?”

Adora nods.

“What’s on your mind?”

“I— I don’t know.”

“Cute baby, huh?” Glimmer takes Adora’s hand.

“Yeah.”

“You’re getting pretty good at that healing thing, too.”

They exit the gate to the courtyard, and run directly into Glimmer’s personal retinue of royal guards.

“Princess Glimmer, Chief Officer Adora,” says the Captain. The scar across her nose follows her sneer. “I would appreciate if you two do _not_ run off without me.”

“Sorry,” Glimmer says. “We had an emergency to attend to in Salineas.”

“Anyway,” the Captain says, “The Queen summons Adora to the dungeon.”

Adora and Glimmer exchange a quick glance.

“Lead the way,” Adora says.

* * *

They enter the dungeon, white lime-wash on the walls. By the light of oil lamps, they descend. The captain leads them down a corridor to the Wardens’ office. It’s an open chamber in the hallway, with a desk and some chairs.

Queen Angella and Castaspella are waiting there.

“Girls,” she greets.

“Mom, auntie,” Glimmer responds.

“Where did you run off to earlier?” Angella asks.

“We waygated to Salineas. Empress Mermista’s newborn daughter was born with a deformity,” Glimmer says.

“A severe cleft lip,” Adora adds. “I knew a man in officer school who was born that way. He had a lot of surgery done by the finest doctors in the Hordelands to correct it. I was able to heal it with She-Ra’s power, if nothing else goes wrong, the girl will likely live.”

“How lovely,” Castaspella says.

“Yes. I shall be sure to send my congratulations,” Angella notes. “Adora.”

“Your Majesty?”

“There has been a development which concerns you. Another defection from the Horde. There’s no delicate way to put this; it is Shadow Weaver, your former… Mentor?”

“Tormentor,” Adora corrects.

“She’s in the cell down the hall, magically bound,” Castaspella says. “She appears weakened, perhaps even ill.”

Angella continues: “It is doubtless that she has vital information, for the upcoming battle. However she refuses to speak to anyone other than you, Adora—”

“I’ll do it.”

“You know I am not asking you to do this. The few anecdotes you’ve shared on her methods of child-care paints a horrifying picture of manipulation. That she requests you specifically, I think, is because she thinks she might leverage your history in her favor. I am staunchly against it.”

“I said, I’ll do it. Last time I was face to face with her, I broke her hand.”

“Adora,” Glimmer says.

“I’m _fine_ Glimmer.”

“Yeah, but I’m coming with you,” Glimmer says.

* * *

The door opens, and Shadow Weaver stirs from her uneasy sleep.

In steps Adora and Princess Glimmer.

“Princess, an unexpected pleasure; how nice of you to join us.”

Glimmer steps up to the edge of the binding circle. “Shadow Weaver. The displeasure is all mine. I want to make one thing clear: if you try anything…”

“What? My reports say you’ve lost your connection to the Moonstone.”

Glimmer nods. “Yeah. I have. However, I’ve been practicing sorcery with Castaspella.”

Shadow Weaver laughs. “ _You_ will cast spells at _me?_ I’ll tear you in half, Princess.”

Glimmer nods. “Yeah.” Glimmer reaches into her belt, and draws a loaded flintlock pistol. “Which is why I’m going to shoot you with this first, to level the playing field.”

She stands, and goes to lean against the wall, holding the gun flat against her chest, and cocking the hammer.

“Lovely,” Shadow Weaver says, and turns her attention to Adora. “Adora, so good to see you again.”

“How’s the hand?” Adora says.

Shadow Weaver holds it up. It’s growing back wrong. There’s some swelling. The doctors has told her it amputation is probably safest, lest the abscesses and bone marrow and something or other. Possibly fatally so. If she isn’t consumed by the Obtainment Curse before that. “I’ll be playing the violin again before long, so the surgeons told me.”

“You came to Brightmoon. Tell me why,” Adora says.

“I came to see you. You’re the only one I can trust. I’ve missed you, my child.”

Adora nods, and turns away. “Glimmer, we’re going. Die in peace, Shadow Weaver.”

“Wait—” Shadow weaver says. “Fine. Clever. Good to see you’ve kept learning; from the moment I first saw you, I knew you were destined for great things.”

Adora nod, frowning. “I see you have a hand I haven’t pulverized yet. Cut the bullshit. I was destined for great things only so long as they were the great things you told me to do. One last try: why are you here?”

Shadow Weaver feels another coughing fit come over her, and doesn’t resist. She falls of the chair, hacking her lungs out. The black phlegm stains her veil; and there’s the telltale burning in her chest telling her she’s coughing up blood again. “I’m dying, Adora,” she croaks, and resumes coughing.

“Good.”

Glimmer steps forward. “Adora, I think she’s serious. Look at her.”

Her coughing subsides, and she steadies herself. “I’ve been cut off from the Black Garnet, and without it, my magic is consuming my flesh as a substitute.”

Adora steps forward. “Fine. I’ll heal you. And then you will tell us everything you know. And not out of the kindness of your heart, but because I will beat you into paste if you don’t.”

“Understood.”

Adora kneels down. “No, I don’t think you actually understand. I need you to trust me, for this to work. Trust that I’m not some stupid little girl that you can manipulate, trust that I will cut you out of my life in a _heartbeat_ if you give me cause, trust that whatever you’re worth is purely what use I have of you. You get one chance. And if you squander it, you will never, _ever_ get another. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand just how undeserving you are of even one iota of my kindness?”

“I do.”

“Do you understand that redemption — any redemption — is beyond your grasp? That once your usefulness is out, we will give you over to Mystacor for prosecution, where you will be put to death for your crimes?”

“I am not stupid, Adora.”

“And yet…” Adora gestures to Shadow Weaver, “here you are.” Then she steps into the circle.

This time, it is a lot harder to muster up starlight. She tries to think of Glimmer and Bow, and Razz, and Mermista and Sea Hawk’s little Adora.

The glow rises in her hands, but not sufficiently.

She thinks of all the things that are wrong in the world, and all the pain, and how desperately she wishes to do everything she can about it.

It’s still not enough.

So she thinks about Catra. About soldiery camaraderie, and sleepovers, and tending to the reckless catgirl’s cuts and bruises, and how she likes to be scratched behind the ear, and… And then it is enough.

Adora lets the blinding light flow into Shadow Weaver.

And then it fades, replaced by the dim glow of the binding circle, and the oil lamps on the walls.

“Huh,” Shadow Weaver says. She clears her throat, and breathes deeply. She inspects her hand, to find that the skin has paled from ashen gray to chalky white, around her knuckles, over the upper part of the palm, and the base of her fingers. “Impressive. Very impressive.”

“Yeah.” Adora rises to her feet and steps back out of the circle. “That was my end of the bargain.”

She walks over to the door and beats on it.

Soon after, it opens, and four royal guards come in, taking positions in the corners of the room. Next, a scribe comes in, setting up a lectern on which to write; and then as if the room wasn’t crowded enough, Queen Angella and Castaspella enter as well.

“We agreed you should tell us everything. We never agreed to whom. Goodbye, Shadow Weaver.”

Shadow weaver chuckles. “Clever, but if you—”

In the blink of an eye and a blinding flash of light, She-Ra is inside the circle. The shield that shattered Shadow Weaver’s hand is on her back. In her hand is an absurd handgun: huge, silver, and as impractical as its caliber is, just as capable is it of reducing brain matter to a fine red mist.

“One. Chance.” She-Ra says. “The Queen. Or a bullet.”

* * *

Outside the cell, Adora collapses against a wall.

Glimmer is on her in a heartbeat. “Adora, are you okay?”

“I _hate_ that woman,” she says. “I _hate_ her. I _hate_ that she never listens, only to threats of force.”

Adora slides down to the floor, and sits there, with Glimmer.

“Let’s get out of here,” Glimmer says.

“No,” Adora says. “Just give me a minute.”

Glimmer goes back to the door, and opens it partway so they can hear Shadow Weaver in the hallway.

“Go,” Adora says. “I’ll be fine.”

* * *

Glimmer enters, and nods to her mother.

“You came to speak, so speak,” the Queen says to Shadow Weaver.

“ _The bindings compel you to do so truthfully,_ ” Castaspella incants. The binding circle glows brighter.

Shadow Weaver seats herself. “I’m short on knowledge about current affairs, but I can only imagine something big is underway. Most of what I know will seem disconnected and unimportant if I cannot put it in context.”

“The Whispering Woods are burning for the first time in recorded history,” Angella says. “The Horde armies are going to make a push through the ashes.”

“Ah, an upset of the balance. Yes. That would work.” She holds up a hand. "What I know is that Chancellor Hordak has given over the Black Garnet Runestone to his wife, and she has found a way to amalgamate First-Ones’ technology with more ordinary devices and machinery.

“If she has somehow found a way to upset the balance created by the Runestones on Etheria, she might be able to effect such wide-reaching consequences; although I doubt it was entirely on purpose.”

“Why do that now?” Glimmer asks. “Hordak has been active for what; at least a hundred years?”

“In part, due to his health improving. I’ve been in Hordak’s employ now for four decades. Before we annexed Dryl and he met Princess Entrapta and they started working on his condition; he was a very sickly man. Many of the medical advances the Hordelands enjoy were spearheaded by Hordak for his own sake.”

“He did mention his health improving at the ball,” the Queen notes.

"Yes. He and Entrapta have made major strides in biological technology, manipulation of hereditary essences, transplantive surgery, and cybernetics. Hordak is cured of his conditions, and that has left them both free to pursue much more sinister endeavors.

“Which might I add, they are terrifyingly efficient at. I don’t even think Hordak sleeps. And Princess Entrapta has a whole team of handlers that just help her get by — she has some sort of mental condition; I have never met a middle-aged woman who was so immature.”

Shadow Weaver blinks. “Sorry, that was irrelevant gossip. Truth spell.”

“Do stay on topic,” the Queen says.

"I also know what Hordak’s end goal is. He is not out to merely conquer Etheria, but to do so with a greater purpose, and does it with knowledge that should he fail he will merely lose face, not the war.

“His ultimate aim is to open a portal to worlds beyond Etheria, and bring here the armies of the _rest of the Horde_ in from outside, either to hand Etheria over to them on a silver platter, or to finish the job.”

Castaspella laughs. “Really? That’s a tall tale if I ever heard one. Worlds beyond Etheria?”

“ _She’s right!_ ” Adora calls from the hallway. “ _There’s worlds beyond Etheria!_ ”

“Is— is she sitting out in the hallway?” Shadow Weaver asks.

“ _I heard that! Don’t change the subject!_ ”

“All right. Tinkering with the Runestone. Worlds beyond Etheria. Reinforcements,” the Queen summarizes.

“No, See, Hordak is normally cagey with the details, but he is as much a fallible person as the rest and lets things slip from time to time: should he succeed in opening that portal, it is _over._ The Horde at large has technology comparable to the First-Ones in their heyday, and they draw their military strength from hundreds if not thousands of worlds like Etheria. And even if they fail to invade, somehow, they might decide to just rain fire from the sky until nothing is left.”

“So. What do we do?” Glimmer asks.

"There is not much you can do. For Hordak it is not a question of if, but when; he has already succeeded at opening an extra-Etherian portal once. That was one of the first major projects I was involved in.

“He already knows _how_ to open a portal in theory. It is merely a question of execution. When he failed back then, it was due to unforeseen wrinkles in spacetime, rather than imperfect technique.”

“ _When was this?_ ” Adora calls.

“Actually, it was the incident that brought you into my custody, Adora. As an infant. How you ended up in a sequestered pocket of spacetime, I have no idea.”

“ _Well, I do actually; thank you for clearing that up._ ”

“How, if I may ask? And why don’t you come in here; it’s a little awkward to speak to you like this.”

“ _You may not. And I don’t wanna be in the same room as you, you mean old witch._ ”

Shadow Weaver huffs. “Name calling, why I ought to—”

“Stay on topic, please,” the Queen says. “The truth spell stays.”

“Again, what do we do?” Glimmer asks. “You’re clever, you must have given it some thought.”

Shadow Weaver looks over at Glimmer. "Well… The quickest and most effective way would be to kill Hordak, Princess Entrapta, his inner circle of true believers, most of the scientists and engineers involved, and then destroy as many First-Ones’ artifacts as possible.

“This could in theory be accomplished by a little excursion by a team of Princesses led by She-Ra.”

“I am not signing off on a mass-assassination mission without additional intelligence,” the Queen says. “For all I know, you may be manipulating the facts to your gain here.”

“I am under spell, Your Majesty.”

“We all know truth spells are not infallible,” Castaspella notes. “Try again.”

“All right, but consider my motives,” Shadow Weaver says. “I have been betrayed, by Hordak, by the Horde, and even by my protégé Catra.”

“ _Your what now?_ ”

Shadow Weaver ignores her. “I have escaped death’s clutches narrowly, and some of you know me to be the kind that holds grudges. I don’t intend to let Hordak win this one; not only because I want to see him fail, but also because I am not stupid. Believe it or not, I would rather like to avoid the end of the world, seeing as I am part of it.”

“Be that as it may, I insist on confirming your statements,” the Queen says.

“Also, because I am a _model prisoner,_ ” Shadow Weaver says, “I would like to give a full brief on the sorcerous weapons I have helped design and develop. But first I would like to attend to my mortal coil, and afterwards, a short academic conversation with Castaspella about the particulars of my condition and the impact I suspect Adora’s healing had on it.”

* * *

“In my opinion, that could have gone a lot worse,” Glimmer says.

Adora is lying on Glimmer’s bed. “It was _exhausting._ ” She grabs a pillow and puts it over her face.

“Yeah, I can’t imagine what it’s like. Hey, wanna do something fun?” Glimmer sits down next to Adora.

Adora peeks out from under the pillow. “I’m not really in the mood for that.”

“No, wow, yeah that came out weirdly suggestive,” Glimmer says, blushing a little. “What I mean is: you’ve been healing people all day, wanna go three-for-three and help me get my power’s back? Unless — I don’t actually know, is healing strenuous for you?”

“No, it’s actually kind of pleasant if I _like_ whoever I’m healing, so you’re in luck.”

Adora sits up, and takes Glimmer’s hand. She takes a deep breath, and calls upon the starlight. The glow in her hands flickers, uncertainly. Maybe she is getting tired.

She digs deep again, bringing up all the people she loves, all the connections she has forged. Maybe even the faint hope that Shadow Weaver isn’t just going to screw them over at earliest opportunity. Queen Angella putting Adora’s well-being over the importance of Shadow Weaver’s intel was unexpectedly heartwarming too.

That helps. The glow builds, and Glimmer is enveloped in it. Glimmer, her girlfriend. Strong, brave, and a total dork sometimes. It’s a good look for her, in Adora’s opinion, to be enveloped in the warm light of love.

“I feel… Something?” she says.

It’s not enough.

Adora closes her eyes, and lets her mind wander where she doesn’t want it to: those slanted eyes, with slit pupils, one yellow, the other blue.

There is a blinding flash.

And a tearing of cloth. Glimmer yelps in pain.

Adora opens her eyes to see Glimmer frantically trying to remove her jacket, and reacting without thinking, Adora summons a blade and cuts the garment off her.

Glimmer’s undershirt is ripped open, and from her back sprouts a pair of majestic, angelic wings.

“Oh… Kay?” Adora says.

“Oh what in the _heavens?!_ ” Glimmer exclaims. “I have _wings_ now?”

“Well, you had wings before, too; tiny cute ones.”

It’s always been something Glimmer was self-conscious of, the little vestigial angel wings: a mark of her status as a human-passing half-breed; and one where human is the bad half. That Adora consistently appreciates them has been a source of much joy, and a lead-in to much joyous activity.

Right now, though, Glimmer is too awestruck to blush at the complement. She flares her new limbs experimentally. “ _Whaa~t?!_ ” she says, softly.

“Oh, is your teleporting back?”

Glimmer blinks two steps to the left, out of her ruined undershirt, leaving her topless. “Yeah. Um, could you go get my mom? I don’t have any shirts that fit anymore.”

Adora backs over to the door, quite unashamedly getting a good look at her girlfriend’s new appearance, before ducking out.


	10. First Strike, Last Peace

Adora is woken up in the middle of the night by the unmistakable thunderous rumble of an explosion, and then a roaring sound from outside.

She jumps out of her warm bed, throwing on a robe, and then the blinds, letting in the icy springtime night.

It’s the sound of an engine. Then there’s the distant roar of an explosion.

“There’s no way,” she mutters. There’s no way the Horde army has already reached Brightmoon. The notion is absurd, the battle hasn’t even begun on the front.

 _For the glory of grayskull, starlight is mine to command,_ and Adora transforms into She-Ra. She swings herself out of the window, and scales the timber-frame walls of the building, onto the roof. She climbs the shingled roof, careful as to not damage or dislodge any shingles, and stands on the crest.

To the south, the glow of a fire illuminates its own smoke cloud. It’s in midtown.

There’s another roar overhead.

Flying machines?

Then there’s another explosion somewhere else. Another fire starts in the distance.

Adora’s tiara transforms into a light-intensification headset, and she scours the skies for signs of aircraft. Big propeller biplanes, with two-man crews of pilots and gunner-bombers; Adora saw the design at a briefing back in summer.

She counts three over the harbor, banking to make another bombing pass, and another six on approach from inland.

A machine gun with a light-intensifying optic forms in her hands, and she shoulders it and exhales, taking careful aim. The gun sings in her hand in a long burst, the recoil mellowed out to a constant force by the long powerful springs, aiding aiming at the cost of lower rate of fire.

The first plane starts veering off course. The other pilots don’t realize what’s going on before Adora has changed targets to the next one.

The four remaining planes bank hard, but the two Adora took down crash-land in the city. One of them goes up in flames as the fuel catches fire, and the resulting explosions as its remaining bombs cook off is far worse than the bombs alone were.

Adora changes her weapon into a four-tube surface-to-air missile launcher. She takes aim and gets a radar-lock on all three planes coming in from over the water immediately. Three of the four missiles scream away on smokeless exhausts of white shock-diamonds.

The last three planes go up in brilliant flashes, and two of the burning shattered wrecks land in the water, one on a pier.

Adora turns her launcher on the fleeing planes, sending the last missile hurtling after the unlucky rearmost plane, flying back to the northeast.

There’s a flash of light behind Adora.

Adora spins and there is Glimmer, already in battle dress, arm outstretch. Adora takes her hand, and they blink together.

* * *

They arrive in the war room. To her credit, Queen Angella is already there, in an elaborate nightgown and robe. A part of Adora’s mind notes that Glimmer gets a good part of her stunning looks from this woman; another part quickly and violently strangles this first part.

“Adora, wonderful.”

Glimmer blinks away.

“That was an air-raid,” Adora immediately says, “nine flying machines, I’m guessing carrying just regular incendiary hand-grenades. I shot two down using a machine gun, which crashed in the city, likely causing more collateral damage than the bombing run itself. I then switched to engaging them with self-directed explosive rockets and shot four down, three over the water, one outside the city.”

“Candid of you to report on your mistakes,” the Queen says.

“To cover up collateral damage is a war crime,” Adora cites. “To do so undermines the trust the public has in the military.”

“Does it now?”

“You should attend my lectures if you have time, Your Majesty” Adora notes. “I left the Horde because they wanted to deceive me into violating the very ideals of honorable warfare they taught me.”

Glimmer blinks back with Spinnerella in tow. She too has had time to dress formally, unlike Adora and the Queen.

“Good. Adora, please elaborate on the nature of the attack,” the Queen says.

“It was conducted by way of flying machines. The purpose was to cause panic and fear. They likely took off from a base in the Ash Corridor. That’s the direction they retreated after taking losses.”

That is the name given to the burnt section of the Whispering Woods, separating the southern potion with Plumeria, from the northern portion reaching all the way to Snows, which was saved with a firebreak made by the combined efforts of the Snows military.

A three-hundred mile wide corridor of burnt forest, stretching from the outer Hordelands to the Brightmoon peninsula.

“Adora, you’re the one who successfully interrupted the attack,” Queen Angella says, “and you are the only one with concrete knowledge of the military capabilities of these flying machines. Is that accurate?”

“I suppose so,” Adora says.

“I plan to activate the Brightmoon Dome to defend against it, I know you are unfamiliar with it so permit me to explain. It is a dome-shaped defensive barrier that encompasses the city. It is strong but not impervious to attack.”

“Hm,” Adora says. “How strong? When was the last time it was battle tested?”

“During the half-year war with Candilan, in the cease-fire in the Salinean-Candilanic wars,” Spinnerella smoothly supplies. “It stood up to shelling from three of Candila’s then new ironclads and when it fell, their powder magazines were too depleted to assault the city.”

“Impressive grasp of history, Princess Spinnerella,” Queen Angella commends.

“Thank you, godmother.”

“Then it will be more than strong enough to deter air raids in their current form,” Adora says.

“Good, which brings me to the derived issue this action will create,” Queen Angella continues. “Alwyn is virtually as close to the Ash Corridor as Brightmoon is. Erelandia is closer. Brightmoon is an attractive target, sure, but if I flatly deny them, they might turn on the next best thing.”

“What about Mystacor?” Glimmer asks.

“They have their own defences,” Queen Angella answers, “we needn’t worry. What we should worry about is Brightmoon’s satellite city-states.”

“Well,” Glimmer says, flaring her new wings. “Between me, Spinnerella, and She-Ra — Adora, you can fly, right?”

Adora hasn’t actually tried. “I don’t know. But I can shoot down planes from the ground.”

“Netossa has a record of taking down airborne, highly-mobile opponents at great altitude,” Spinnerella notes.

“And that’s it, right?” Adora says. “We’re it. We’re the only anti-air capability the Alliance has.”

“Yeah?” Glimmer says.

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“We’re going to be guarding cities in shifts; what I know of the plan — and that’s dangerously out of date — is that the air force is going to play a _major_ role in the Brightmoon invasion,” Adora says.

“We need Mystacor’s support to secure the skies,” Spinnerella says. “And fast.”

“Agreed,” the Queen says.

* * *

“So tell me again why we’re shipping out to the front instead of just staying put in our cushy job as security?” Scorpia asks.

“I am. Not you, Scorpia,” Catra says. “I’m bringing Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle. We’ll be supplementing with Special Service agents. You stay put with your men, keep Entrapta’s work safe. Get your enhancements done too. I’ll need you at the top of your game.”

Scorpia’s men are her boarding teams from the Amaranth. The Amaranth itself has been refitted for direct naval engagement, and they scored well on Catra’s aptitude test.

“But again, why?”

“Because we’re going to lose the war if I don’t.”

Scorpia crosses her arms. “Don’t go telling me that crap, Wildcat. There are no heroes in war.”

“Yes there is. Thirteen, in fact,” Catra states matter-of-factly. “They are called Runestone Princesses, and _none of them_ are on our side.”

“Okay, yeah, but do you really think they are enough to win the war?”

Catra looks up from packing her kit. “Scorpia, eight of them _walked_ into Capital _unopposed._ The only reason the city is still standing is… Is that they weren’t here to level the place.”

Scorpia pulls Catra into a hug. Catra sputters in protest.

“Hey, Wildcat. You come back to me, all right?”

“I’m not planning on dying for my country, Scorpia.”

“In one piece, too.”

“Yeah of course.”

“Promise?”

Catra groans. “Yeah, whatever, I promise.”

* * *

Adora shifts back into her human form in the hallway and collapses against a wall.

Glimmer is on her in a heartbeat. “Hey, you don’t look so good.”

“I’m just tired, that’s all. I just need to go back to bed.”

“Adora, I know that look. You look like my men do after three days under siege with no sleep. What have you been doing?” Glimmer asks.

“Just giving my lectures…”

“And?…”

Adora sighs. “There was a Cholera outbreak in my neighborhood. I had to help.”

“How _much_ did you help?”

“I healed the sick, and I convinced the local health board to close the pumps.”

Glimmer knows Cholera, of course. It’s a disease that periodically ravages Brightmoon, as well as every other city. The blue death.

“Okay back up,” Glimmer says. “How long did that take? And why close the water pumps?”

“It took around a day to get everyone, and then a day and a half on call for any additional cases to pop up. And you close the pump because you contract Cholera through drinking water contaminated with feces.”

Glimmer blinks. “Did you sleep at all?”

“No? I don’t get tired when I’m She-Ra, so I just shifted when I started nodding off.”

Glimmer rubs her temple. “Adora you need to stop doing that.”

“What, healing the sick? Absolutely not.”

“Oh, what like when you went to every single sanatorium and healed all the patients, and I had to come pick you up because you fell asleep in a patient’s bed?”

Adora looks away.

“They have good doctors in the Hordelands, right?”

Adora nods. “We— they have medicine to treat TB. And Cholera, though there’s not really any outbreaks of that anymore.”

“And do those doctors work themselves until they pass out from exhaustion?”

“No.”

“Adora, we’re in the middle of a war. If you destroy yourself by trying to heal every sick person in Brightmoon, a lot of those you heal are going to die anyway when the Horde armies break through and shell the city to rubble or something.”

Adora sits down.

Glimmer crouches beside her. “So. Cholera, they don’t get that in the Hordelands?”

“No.”

“Do you know why?”

“Sewers.”

Glimmer blinks. “Really?”

“Keep poop water and drinking water separate well enough, and it goes away. But laying the sewers of Capital was the single most expensive public works project undertaken in the Hordelands, ever. Like, half of the yearly military budget-expensive. We can’t afford to do that in Brightmoon.”

Glimmer sits down. “Well, enhancement tattoos could help.”

“What?”

Glimmer undoes the clasp on her breastplate, and then the collar, pulling it down to show a circle on her shoulder. “It’s not perfect, but it does reduce the incidence of almost all illness by a _lot._ Including Cholera, Tuberculosis, and all the big child-killers. I got this one when I was an infant, and it’s been updated ever since.”

“I wondered what that one was for.”

Adora had very impertinently asked about the tattoo across Glimmer’s pubic region, and gotten the reply that it was an enhancement to regulate one’s monthly cycle, and control conception. Most notably it could prevent both entirely. Adora had promptly made an appointment to get one; menstruating without access to plentiful disposable and sterile cotton gauze was a ‘never again’ kind of experience.

“You should get one too, actually,” Glimmer points out. “Everyone should.”

“I can heal myself,” Adora points out. “And I’m willing to bet it’s expensive.”

“Yeah they are expensive, but inexpensive enough that soldiers are provided with them. And you apparently can’t heal away your need for sleep. Promise me you’ll pace yourself and conserve your strength, okay?”

Adora looks at her hands, and the little sparks of starlight that now come to her fingertips almost uncalled for.

* * *

Catra hates the smell of burnt wood that sill hangs in the air. The truck hits a pothole. Brand new road, already potholed.

Lonnie sits next to her, asleep. Kyle and Rogelio across from them. The rest of the truck is occupied by a dozen additional soldiers of all races.

“Hey, Captain, where’s your rifle?” one of the soldiers ask. Corporal Jona, a big tan-furred faun.

“In the bin,” Catra answers.

“Why?”

“Cause it looks like a dick, and I have about as much use for it as one.”

Jona laughs. “Well, Captain six-shooter, I hope you can hit anything with those plinkers.”

“We’re not going to the firing range, Corporal,” Catra says, “the sights on that dick-rifle of yours go out to two thousand yards, yeah? It’ll do you a fat lot of good when there’s a rebel close enough to swat your bayonet aside with his. The butt end will do you more good as a club than the barrel end will for shooting.”

* * *

The air raids return, and are rebuffed by the Brightmoon Dome with ease. The next night, true enough, they turn on Erelandia.

She-Ra is there to meet them, in silver powered armor, boosting into the sky on a skirt of powerful jet engines.

So the night after, they go to Alwyn, where Spinnerella and Glimmer together turn away another air raid. Spinnerella stalling out the biplanes with a wave of her hand, and Glimmer blinking lengths of chain into the propellers. The gunners never bring their machine guns to bear on the nigh-invisible two figures hanging in the sky.

Four failed raids, and the loss of almost fifty planes, puts a stop to the terror tactics. Adora knows they will instead be turned on the supply lines supporting the defensive forces.

By the time the Horde air marshal — singular, the Horde air force isn’t large enough for two yet — realizes that the Princesses are gone from Erelandia and Alwyn, Mystacor will have cooked up defensive spells that renders it permanently futile.

Adora and Glimmer sets out for the Ash Corridor front.

* * *

“Is that your old guild emblem?” Castaspella asks.

Shadow Weaver puts the golden trinket away. “Yes. Contrary to appearances, I do have my bouts of sentimentality.”

“I’m going to go ahead and say that’s a lie.”

Shadow Weaver squints. “I _also_ used it to escape from a high-security anti-magic prison of my own design.”

“How?”

“Is it pertinent?”

Castaspella shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m just making conversation, talking shop. Why are you so defensive? I’m curious what the former greatest sorceress in Mystacor has been up to for my entire adult career.”

Shadow Weaver sighs. “Less than I might have liked.” She pulls out the guild emblem, and tosses it to Castaspella. “Notice the heft. I had it hollowed out and hid the last of the Glass Dust in there. Tricked an associate into smuggling it to me in my captivity, hidden under my mashed potatoes.”

“Hm. Clever.”

“Yes, but not impressive. Common trickery; no more.”

Castaspella takes a seat. “Magic alone is just magic. Application and creativity is when it becomes _sorcery._ ”

“Spare me your teacher’s wisdoms.”

“So. Let’s talk about your condition. How do you feel?”

“Better. Much better. A hearty meal and wine that I can actually taste? Clean clothes? Wonderful. I’d like to go outside, but I understand if you prefer keeping me in this cell.”

Castaspella nods. “Any pain? Hallucinations? ‘Magical hunger’ as you put it?”

“None. I even managed to sleep for a few hours without nightmares.”

Castaspella takes out a charged fragment of quartz, and tosses it to Shadow Weaver. She catches it, and doesn’t immediately drain it of power.

“See? Restraint,” Shadow Weaver says. “I’m no longer host to a ravenous beastly parasite, but rather the Obtainer and I have become a symbiosis.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, but for now, I think it is safe to allow you outside the binding circle.”

“Are you going to apply bindings directly to my person instead?”

Castaspella shakes her head. “You’re much too difficult to contain. And physical restraints would just get in the way.”

“Then what’s to stop me from slipping away?”

“I trust that you are not stupid enough to cross Adora. How did she put it?” Castaspella stands, making a finger gun and pointing it at Shadow Weaver. “ _One. Chance._ ” she says.

Shadow Weaver’s eyes narrow. “Point made and taken.”

* * *

The front is a grim place.

One hundred thousand men and women rubbing shoulders, their world reduced to narrow corridors walled in clay-filled earth and wood planks; sleeping underground, spending daytime hours in menial labor or grim anticipation. Those that get to take shifts looking out over no-man’s land are the lucky ones.

There’s already a death-toll. Despite the efforts to provide inoculating enhancements, there’s still diseases at large, that cull the weakest mercilessly. There’s misfires and equipment failures. There’s men falling off ladders. There’s tetanus from infected cuts. There’s even the single case of a careless woman falling in the latrine pit — though she didn’t drown, but fell to the subsequent pneumonia instead.

Glimmer and Adora arrive by air, landing in the support and administrative camps miles behind the trenches.

Adora banishes her flight suit, revealing the result of _many_ hours of negotiating with whatever magical system creates She-Ra’s outfits: a pastel purple crescent moon emblazoned on her chestplate.

It does of course cause some commotion, and soon enough a commanding officer comes to meet them comes to meet them. A feliform woman in ceremonial mail and blue sash befitting her rank.

“Princess Glimmer, She-Ra, to what do I owe the honor?”

“Please, Brigadier General, I’m only a Commandant, She-Ra is a field operative Chief Officer. We’re requesting permission to access the trenches.”

“Granted, of course.”

"Additionally, you should expect Princess Spinnerella of Alwyn, Netossa of Mystacor, and Princess Cometa of Candila.


	11. Battle of the Ash Corridor, Part 1

Catra and her team do _not_ go to the front lines.

The Horde army is as always both the pinnacle of military efficiency and the pinnacle of military efficiency.

Mustering one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers into staging camps is a logistical feat that more or less requires constructing an entire city. The front lines are three-layers of hastily dug trenches as a last line of defense. What’s really supposed to ward off attacks is the regularly spaced machine gun nests — little piles of sandbags housing ten to fifteen men running two water-cooled guns — that dot the front.

Not that they will do any good if She-Ra starts throwing her weight around.

Out there are thousands of recruits and enlisted, resentful of their training officers, hateful towards their commanding officers, and now finally on the brink of being given outlet for their frustration.

“All right, ladies and gents,” Catra says. “We’re here for one purpose and one purpose only. To neutralize and capture the enemy force-multiplying personnel asset known as She-Ra.”

There’s twenty-seven soldier in her platoon; Catra has equipped them _liberally_ with light machine guns, lever-action carbines, and anti-Runestone field projectors. No organic mortar teams, no organic general machine gun team.

They are also _all_ of them on the ruggedized off-road motor bikes that just rolled off the production lines six months ago. All with side-cars.

"We can expect She-Ra to be accompanied by several other Runestone-wielding personnel assets, likely those designated Glimmer-Brightmoon, Spinnerella-Alwyn, and Netossa-Mystacor. It is _imperative_ that we manage to disable them as fast as possible when encountered. Just _one_ of those can kill everyone in this unit without suffering even a grazing shot.

“To accomplish this we have several tools at out disposal, recently developed by the Sorcery Division back home.”

Catra gestures to the equipment on the table.

"First, you’ve been briefed on the use of these, our new wonder weapons, Mark II ARW-SP. Anti-Runestone Wielder, Sorcery, Projector.

"Point one of these at a Runestone-wielder or whatever nonsense they can conjure up, and it fizzles away. Be careful, they are sturdy enough to handle roughly, but not much more. The enemy knows of the existence of these, and will prioritize their destruction. They are _not_ a fight-ender, assume that any and all Runestone-wielders are armed and dangerous; and that they have backup at all times.

“We’ll discuss capture tactics using the ARW-SP later. Once we _do_ get a capture we have several tools at hand.” Catra lifts a set of restraints — manacles, hobble, belt, and choker. "This is a Mark III ARW-FBR, Full-Body Restraints. It is the second-best way to ruin their day. Not only is it as effective as the ARW-SP, but it is difficult to remove as well.

“Then there’s these —” Catra picks up a leather case, opening it to reveal a series of syringes "— this is the Mark I ARW-IS. Injection, Serum. Make sure to shake it before injecting. If you manage to land one of these on a Runestone-wielder, they are out of the fight.

“That’s it for weapons, unfortunately. Runestone-wielders are, contrary to rumor, susceptible to bullets. The next bit is where it gets interesting: defensive measures…”

Catra holds up a set of twenty-nine different charms. Little disks of metals, with intricate inscriptions on both sides, with numbered paper tags attached.

“These are experimental. We’re the test subjects. They are to be worn in specific places on the body, and will in theory prevent a Runestone-wielder from turning their unnatural powers on your _insides._ In particular I know Glimmer-Brightmoon is capable of causing any man she can see to keel over dead.”

* * *

“ _Contact! Contact! Contact! Enemy spotted! Enemy spotted! Fast approaching! Fast approaching!_ ”

The call comes through the forward trench. Runners dispatch inwards to alert the officers.

“Commandant Glimmer, ma’am!” A young soldier enters the dugout.

Glimmer stands to meet her. “Report!”

“The enemy has been spotted. Vehicles, moving fast. Likely backed by infantry—”

There’s a distant boom.

“ _Shells!_ ”

Then there’s a whistle followed by an earth-shattering thunder. Dust falls from the roof of the dugout.

“ _Flying machines!_ ”

Adora is out the door past the soldier faster than she can step aside.

“Report, soldier!” Glimmer commands.

“They’re coming, ma’am!”

Glimmer turns to Spinnerella, Netossa, and Cometa. “Ready, girls?”

There’s a round of nods.

Glimmer’s kit is enchanted brigandine armor, helmet, and a scutum shield, same as the troops. Her mother has taught her to phase her wings through clothing — which is obvious in retrospect, given that her cape doesn’t have holes cut for them — which also works for armor, and even a shield.

She’s carrying her late father’s staff instead of a long gun, her mother’s battle boots — axe-blades on the tips, for kicking on fly-by, and a satchel of grenades.

Netossa is wearing a custom set of armor. The base is a complex leather harness that distributes pulling forces evenly to her body. The armor panels are the brainchild of some mad enchanter from Mystacor: it looks like steel plate, but it is _flexible._ She carries a set of duck-bill hatchets, several knives, a rapier, and a main-gauche.

Spinnerella is also in standard Brightmoon kit, but carries a smoothbore breech-loader, and a satchel of pellet shot, and powder, a rapier on her hip, and a lighter round shield.

Cometa is wearing an ornate plate and mail, a shield quite similar to the one she made for She-Ra, and a staff wrought from a secret alloy of steel. On her hip is a pair of revolving pistols, and pouches extra powder, cap, and ball.

“Keep your heads down, don’t take any unnecessary risks, conserve resources.”

“We’re not stupid,” Netossa adds.

“She didn’t mean it that way,” Spinnerella says.

“Lead the way, cousin,” Cometa says, her voice modulated by the metal visor.

Glimmer exits the officer’s dugout and the others follow.

“She-Ra!?” she yells.

“Up here!” comes the reply form up above the lip of the trench. Shortly after there’s a staccato salvo of rapid machine gun fire. “The planes are coming in, they’re going to bomb the supply lines.”

“Netossa,” Glimmer says. “You relieve She-Ra, we cannot let that happen, but I need She-Ra on the front lines.”

Netossa throws a tether over the lip of the trench and lets it pull her up.

She-Ra is standing there with a machine gun on an AA-tripod, taking potshots at the incoming biplanes.

“Get back to Glimmer, I’ve got this,” Netossa says.

She throws a tether attached to her wrist into the air. In a heartbeat the tether reaches a quarter mile into the sky, then branches into a gigantic volume of loose interconnected tether-threads. When Netossa commands it to contract, the sheer air-resistance of the mass of threads provides the anchor she needs to rocket skywards, laughing madly.

Adora looks on as Netossa vanishes into the air, dancing on on strings suspended in thin air. Planes start falling out of the sky like autumn leaves, ripped to shreds by invisible gossamer.

She jumps back into the trench. “Spinnerella, your wife is terrifying.”

“Yes!” Spinnerella says with a warm smile.

“Let’s move!” Glimmer says.

* * *

The tanks come upon the forward trench, and struggle in the mud-pit moats. These are not the cavalry models with the hover-drives, but the medium-weight infantry support on caterpillar treads.

The infantry following behind them, using the tanks for cover, wade through knee-deep and waist-deep mud. The first casualties of battle happen here, as unlucky souls fall over, unnoticed by their comrades, and drown.

Mike’s one of the lucky ones. Mud is easier for fawns and satyrs.

“Halt!” the tank commander yells. “Wide trenches! Send for timbers!”

A runner turns around and starts wading back.

“Lucky bastard,” Ghostpaw says. Her white fur is gray with dirt.

“Contact!” The machine gun on the tank starts firing bursts.

“ _’Nade! Take cover!_ ”

A half-dozen grenades come sailing out of the trench, most going wide, or landing in the muck. The soldiers duck best as they can without any actual cover. One of them lands two yards from Mike, in a particularly deep mud pit.

There’s six resounding _cracks_ going off, Mike gets a shower of mud, and one of the guys over yonder starts screaming. Callahan, by the sound of it.

His buddy is on him in a second. “Shit! Those ’nades are made of glass!”

“What in the _fuck?_ ”

Another wave of grenades sail over the trench.

“ _’Nade! No, wait! Smoke! They’re throwing smoke!_ ”

“ _Advance!_ ” the tank commander yells.

The machine rolls closer, and the commander keeps on the gun, laying down fire. The gunner starts traversing the turret, looking for a target deserving of a three-inch shell.

They get out of the mud, and onto dry ground. Well, dry _er_ ground. Another wave of grenades come out of the trench. They take cover again, this time hitting the dirt.

This time there’s six resounding explosions, and the tank armor rings as fragmentation pings off it. There’s a lot more screaming and yelling and ringing of ears this time. This time the grenades are made of iron.

“ _Grenades out! Give them a taste!_ ” Lieutenant Schelley yells

The four grenadiers — one of them who has just promoted himself by grabbing a satchel of grenades from his dead comrade; they pull drawstrings and throw the stick-bombs. Two of them miss the trench. It’s hard to throw accurately lying down.

Three plumes of black smoke rise out of the trench, and there’s yelling and screaming.

“Charge!”

The gunner picks a random point along the trench line to lay a shell into. The trench wall collapses.

They’re sixteen of them left. They all rise, bayonets on their rifles, and run for the lip of the trench.

“Stop on the crest! Volley down!” the Lieutenant yells. “Don’t jump!”

One of them still manages to stumble and fall into the pit. There’s a short yelp and a nasty _thump._ Visibility is really starting to drop.

Mike runs between the sharpened stakes driven into dirt — almost impales himself too — and stops on the crest.

He levels his rifle on the figures below. Clad in blue.

“ _Shields up!_ ” someone bellows.

Mike shoots, runs the bolt, and shoots a follow-up shot. He hits _something_ but there’s no body that falls over.

It’s a drop into the trench, but they’ve drilled jumping down from things plenty of times in boot camp.

The figures in the trench pull away, backing away from where Mike’s platoon has come upon the trench, disappearing into the smoke. Someone fires back with crack and a billow of white smoke.

“Down! Down! Down!” the Lieutenant yells. “Stay sharp!”

Mike hops down, landing effortlessly.

They all make it into the trench, one by one. “Grenades out! At the ready!”

“ _Now!_ ”

Mike spins around to face the noise and fires, runs the bolt, fires, into the smoke.

Out of the smoke comes a solid wall of six men, at a dead run, shields front.

“Retreat!” Mike screams.

“Behind us!” the Lieutenant yells.

Mike manages to glance over his shoulder, seeing another wall of shields filling the trench behind them. Then something hits him in the head, knocking his helmet clean off.

* * *

Glimmer takes out an iron grenade, and holds up a pocket mirror on a stick, over the lip of the trench. She hums a brief eight-bar piece, and the fuse lights, hissing and smoking with unquenchable fire. The grenade vanishes. There’s a hollow boom, like a fire-cracker in a church bell.

“Good grief, cousin,” Cometa says, “save some for the rest of us.”

“Save your strength, we’re going to be here all day and all night. You and I don’t have unlimited power like Spinny and ’Tossa.” She hops down, and they run down the zig-zagging trench, past a pair of soldiers carrying a third on a stretcher. Then a little past that, two poor sods torn apart by a grenade. A section of collapsed trench wall, and a half-buried corpse.

They come upon a section of soldiers huddling in the smoke, forming a shield wall.

“Charge!” the Sergeant yells. They ram forward as one, truncheons and shields.

Glimmer and Cometa duck as rifle-fire goes wide over their heads.

It’s a tactic thought out by Adora: a real medieval one too. Drilling the men in it has been nine tenths physical exercise, one tenth technique; the shields, enchanted to be bullet-proof though they may be, are heavy.

It also gets ample opportunity to take prisoners.

Glimmer holds out a hand, and Cometa takes it, they blink to the other side of the action, and Glimmer waves Cometa over the side, by a ladder. “Your turn. There’s a ‘tank’ up there. Do as little as possible.”

Cometa clambers up, peeking over the dirt mound up top. She holds out a hand and feels out the enormous metal contraption. She’s always been less encumbered by range than her sisters, but less powerful too. Fortunately it’s not all rivets, welds, and forges. There’s a substantial number of screws and bolts, things that are _supposed_ to move, locked in place by friction alone. Friction which Cometa is _very_ adept at minimizing.

She closes her fist and twists. Every single nut, bolt, and screw inside it spontaneously comes undone. Every push-pin pops, every nail in a board wiggles free. For a few seconds, nothing happens, then there’s a loud clank and a crunch as something comes loose and falls down inside. The running engine sputters out.

Cometa hops down. “Done.”

“Good job,” Glimmer says.

* * *

Spinnerella pops open the chamber on her gun, and powder, wad, shots, and wad again fly into the hole carried by the air itself. She closes it, and jumps eight feet in the air, sailing just over the lip of the trench, and firing. The smoke provides complete concealment, but Spinnerella doesn’t need to see her target to aim.

Carried by her will, the cluster of pellets stay together out to a hundred yards, and strikes true, taking the life of a tank commander in the machine gun cupola.

“I can’t do much to these things,” she says.

“Why not?” Adora asks.

“It’s a big hunk of steel; I can’t exactly blow it away.”

Adora nods. “Of course not. How much battle have you seen?”

“Um… I’m really more of a diplomat.”

“Welcome to on-the-job training,” Adora says. “Figure out how to destroy that tank. Feel it out with your power if you can, find something that looks important, and disrupt it.”

Spinnerella leans agains the wall, eyes closed, listening. “It’s drawing in a lot of breath. From a breathing hole up high.”

“Oh, yeah that’d be the engine air intake. That’s important.”

“And if I fill it with sand?” Spinnerella asks.

“The the game is up. The engine chokes until they clear it.”

Spinnerella speaks to the wind, and whips up what dry dust she can in the aftermath of yesternight’s rains. The particles dance on the air, and all collect impossibly in the air intake manifold of the tank, causing the engine to choke and die.

“Now they are either going to attempt to climb out clear it, or abandon it.”

Spinnerella re-loads her gun, waits and listens, then hops up to shoot again.

“All right,” Adora says. She climbs up and takes aim with a spring-loaded grenade projector. Taking careful aim, she launches a heavy shell into a high arc, which crashes down directly on top of the tank in the distance, obliterating it.

They continue down the trench, passing by huddle soldiers waiting for attack. “We’re going to be doing this a lot, you need to find a way to take out a tank reliably.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault.”

Spinnerella stops. “Flour.”

“Pardon?”

“I need flour, or sawdust, or some other flammable powder.”

“Dust explosion.”

“I can even light it with a fire-spell. I’m no sorceress, but that is comfortably within my ability.”

Adora looks around and spots a Sergeant. “Can you spare a runner?”

The man stands at attention. “Ma’am. Of course, ma’am.” He waves over a soldier.

“Run and fetch the Princess here a sack of sawdust, and two rations of powdered sugar. We’ll be continuing in this direction. Meet us at the next down trench.”

“What?”

“You heard General She-Ra, move it soldier!” The Sergeant bellows.

“Good luck, Sergeant,” Adora says, and they continue.

“Promotion?” Spinnerella asks.

“Needed it to get the other generals to listen. I don’t actually have a command.”

* * *

“Reports are back from the first wave, Captain.”

Catra jumps up, setting aside her lunch.

“Nice officer’s tent,” Jona remarks, handing over the telegram.

“Thanks. If you work real hard, one day maybe you too can help your captain erect one,” Catra says. She points to the serving tray on her desk. “Have a beer, Corporal.”

“Thank you, Captain. So, what do you make of that?”

Catra finishes reading. “It’s Princesses all-right. Get your squad saddled up, we’re moving out.” She pockets the paper, and heads outside. “ _Kyle! Rogelio! Those ARW’s better be ready!_ ”

Jona looks at the bottle of beer in his hand. “Another day, gorgeous,” he mutters, and puts it back.


	12. Battle of the Ash Corridor, Part 2

The retreat is called, and the first wave is a failure. Intentionally so. To the Horde command, the Brightmoon forces has show their hand: they aim to dig in, control their expansive network of trenches, and not do much else. A fortification that must be captured — it spans a third of the Ash Corridor, and holds an enormous army in waiting.

And it only cost around a half-hundred tanks and about a thousand men to confirm this in exhaustive detail. Various tactics have been tested and evaluated. The next push will be a different matter entirely.

Cobalt’s efforts in spearheading the road-construction — a monumental undertaking of logistics and administration — has seen him promoted to Brigadier General. Now he’s in charge of the offensive center, and his analysts are already cooking up a plan to smoke out the rebels, quite literally.

The distant thunder of artillery batteries provide a soothing ambiance to the cool afternoon.

Captain Catra comes into his tent. “General.”

“Captain. Good to see you again.” Cobalt closes the in-progress dossier on operation firebird.

“Yeah, you too,” Catra says. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

“And to you.”

“I have a proposition,” Catra says.

“I might imagine.” He folds his hands. “Please, sit.”

She does. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead.”

Catra lights a cheroot. “The reports are in on the initial assault. That’s an _astounding_ number of prisoners. And total loss of all armor. Ouch.”

Cobalt smiles. “Captured men are better than dead. We’ll liberate them soon enough. And of tanks we have plenty.”

Catra shakes her head. “The trenches are networked and too well-guarded to traverse. There’s nothing worthy of cannon fire on their side, aside from their alleged and undoubtedly inferior artillery. And to add to that—”

Catra takes a drag and exhales a cloud of smoke.

“— Notice how all the early tank losses are around the south-center? And if you reconstruct the timeline, it’s obvious that two groups possessing profound anti-armor capability moved in opposite directions.”

“I’ve read the reports, same as you.”

Catra nods. “Yeah, and we expected them to have some kind of anti-armor charges to throw under our tanks. However, you should be _much_ more concerned about this anomaly.” Catra leans forward and taps the map at the south-center area of the front.

Cobalt grins a toothy grin. “I am well aware of it.”

“Our soldiers stand to have no armor support at all in capturing the enemy position, unless we can defeat this team of anti-armor fire. We lost _twenty-five_ treads in an hour.”

“That’s still only half the fielded treads.”

“Yes, because the rest were seemingly disabled by point-blank attachment of explosive charges at tremendous cost in manpower for the enemy. That is what we predicted, and what we _want._ ”

Cobalt nods. “Do you have a point?”

“Yes. The ones destroying our tanks with impunity? It’s She-Ra, former Warrant Officer Adora, and a group of princesses, but you already know that.”

“I do. And we’re going to deploy counter-measures on tonight’s attack.”

“ARW-SP’s, one per platoon. I know. It’s not going to work.”

“And why is that?”

“Because nobody on the entire front has ever faced these people in combat except possibly _me,_ and I’m telling you they are crafty before you start factoring in their unnatural powers. I have a team, we’re specifically prepared to handle this threat.”

“And what do you suggest?”

“Draw them out, and I’ll serve you She-Ra on a platter. Use the cavalry tanks, in a concentrated charge, to the north, as part of firebird. They can jump trenches, can’t they?”

* * *

Bow creeps forward, careful not to step on the burnt wood littering the ground. His cape is pitch black with streaks of grey ash, as is the rest of the Ranger troupe. Killigan leads the way for their team.

In the distance, faint noises and lights indicate their target: a forward Horde camp. Boldly close to the treeline — a half-mile. Perfuma’s beasts cannot reach it due to the fortifications, and so all she can do is defend the forest itself against those that would put it to the torch.

No matter how many men are crushed in the jaws of plant beasts, and how many are torn apart by the motile roots of angry trees, they keep on coming.

Up ahead a pair of patrolmen walk through the charred remains of underbrush, one holding a lantern aloft dangling from his bayonet at the end of his rifle.

Unseen by them, two rangers creep up from behind and slit their throats. One gingerly relieves the soldier of his rifle and lantern, and keeps walking at the same pace and trot, so as to not cause suspicion.

Killigan waves them forward, towards the perimeter.

There’s a machine gun nest to take care of, and Killigan gestures for Bow and to assist her. One soldier on the lookout, two resting. Killigan, and Bow creep into range silently, moving only when the lookout’s attention shifts.

Killigan nocks an arrow, and Bow follows her example. She draws, aims, and looses a razor-tipped bodkin shaft, which hits the lookout in the face, left of the nose. He doesn’t scream.

The gunner next to him notices, but before he can cry alarm, Bow looses one arrow, and another, hitting her in the shoulder and neck.

They set into a sprint, getting to the nest. Quickly and quietly, they pull the arrows and stage the corpses so an onlooker might not notice anything amiss.

Killigan nods to Bow, and they move on. Quickly, quietly, low to the ground. They meet up with the rest of Killigan’s command, coming from the next machine gun nest. The next stage of the mission is going to be messy.

The camp is a tent town. Semi-permanent though it may be, there are no timbers to construct barracks from.

The make their way to one of the tents on the outskirts of camp — scouts have kept the camp under constant watch for days on end, so they know exactly what they are approaching: inside is nothing but sleeping soldiers.

Bow draws a razor-sharp knife, Killigan takes out a pocket watch. Jeff takes out two iron grenades, and Mike takes out a flintlock pistol, unloaded.

They are still on pace with the mission schedule, and none of the teams have been spotted.

Killigan gives the sign. Bow plunges the knife into the canvas and rips open a hole, then pulls either side of the gash aside to make an opening. Mike lights the fuses one, then the other, and Jeff lobs them inside.

Then all four of them hit the dirt.

There’s a yell of “ _’Nade!_ ” from inside the tent, and then there’s two deafening explosions. Bow’s ears ring, but he still hears the screams.

Then there’s _more_ explosions from other parts of the camp. A bell starts ringing, and the yelling starts as well.

Bow, Killigan, and the satyr brothers get up, and join the other four of their troupe. They nock arrows and proceed towards the commotion. Now begins the ugly work of securing victory.

The Horde forces are in complete disarray. Officers are yelling contradictory orders, men are running like headless chickens, the wounded lie screaming in tents and on the ground, and everyone is in their underwear. Gunfire cracks over the din sporadically, and in the midst of it, dark-clad Rangers take potshots from the shadows. One of the tents catch fire as an oil lamp is knocked over.

Then the cavalry rolls in. Plumerian soldiers in ironwood armor, riding Perfuma’s plant beasts. They roll through the camp, tearing down tents and driving the remaining Horde soldiers into to rout, running off into the ashen plains on bare feet.

“Is everyone okay?” Killigan asks.

There’s a round of six affirmations.

“I can’t find Mike,” Jeff says, anxiously.

“We’ll find him,” Bow says, patting the shoulder of the anxious satyr.

They find Mike in another part of camp entirely, minutes later, Jeff yelling for his brother: “ _Mii~ke!_ ”

“ _Over here,_ ” Mike croaks, raising a shaky bloody hand.

Jeff is on him in a moment, yelling for the others to help him. Mike’s been shot in the side. They put pressure on the wound. Bow runs off to find a rider to take Mike back to Plumeria.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Mike says. “I got turned around.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ranger,” Killigan tells him.

“Hey, keep quiet, idiot,” Jeff says, pressing down on the wound harder.

Mike winces. “I’m a shitty big brother. Getting lost and shot.”

“ _Shut up!_ ”

Bow returns with a plant beast. Jeff and Mike ride off to Plumeria.

Killigan starts giving orders — there’s supplies and equipment to capture, prisoners to process, and a fire to fight.

They return to Plumeria at the break of dawn, dead on their feet.

Mike doesn’t make it.

* * *

Artillery is as much a psychological weapon as it is a tool of area denial, and getting shelled from noon until past midnight is harrowing.

Rare is it that a shell actually lands in a trench, and even then it is not damage that cannot be fixed in a matter of hours by a squad with entrenchment and carpentry tools. But sitting in a dugout that takes a direct hit is what turns soldiers into believers in higher powers, because there is nothing to do but pray that a few tons of earth doesn’t come tumbling down.

So when it stops, there’s a sense of relief, of course.

“It’s the fake-out,” Adora says. “Suit up.”

The others silently agree.

True enough, minutes later, the impacts resume for a few minutes, and then cease.

“All right, let’s move out. We’re in for something.”

Spinnerella gently wakes Netossa, who is somehow able to sleep. She’s been in the skies all day, taking out planes, and there’s no flying at night.

They’ve had a meal of hardtack and strong tea, and opportunity to doff their armor, but not much more.

They move under Glimmer and Spinnerella’s conjured lights, through dark trenches.

The commanding generals have come up with a better use for She-Ra and her squad of Princesses than taking out enemy armor on the front line. Outside of the section of the front they covered in this morning’s assault, the tanks mostly made it across the front trench.

Here they were met with the grid-nature of the trench network, constantly needing to cross trenches — narrower ones, which the machines could cross without bridging timber. However, this was where another weapon was brought to bear: anti-tank charges.

Heavy cast-iron pans, with heavy lids riveted-on, magnetized, and full of black powder. With a nice long fuse, all it takes to stick one to a tank somewhere other than on the front armor plate. The blast is more than enough to damage the caterpillar drive, rendering the tank immobile, its crew stranded behind the enemy lines.

Apart from hitting one with a howitzer shell purely by chance, that is the only real anti-armor weapon the Alliance can field. And it pretty much requires soldiers to brave the projected field of anti-personnel machine gun fire projected by the tank commander in the cupola.

The tank commanders also found it effective to park their tanks on top of trenches, lob a few grenades over the side to clear anyone directly below, and use the gun turret to tear up the entire length of the trench.

It was ugly, and costly. Machine gun fire has a tendency to creep around shields.

Adora and her crew makes it to the front, and Adora climbs a ladder to peer into the darkness. “Glimmer, Spinnerella, take flight, find them.”

Glimmer takes off north, Spinnerella south.

“We’ve got incoming!” Adora says. “Alert the artilleries, tell them to load up and be ready to fire.”

Minutes later, Spinnerella returns. “I found them. It’s a major force, many tanks. I’ve alerted the local officers.”

Glimmer blinks in. “There’s a force coming in up north, it’s the hovering vehicles that attacked Thaymor.”

Adora freezes. “Those can go straight over trenches, we _have_ to stop them, they’ll reach the interior in no time!” She conjures a mechanical horse. “Spinnerella, Netossa, Glimmer, you go south. Cometa, with me!”

She-Ra pulls Cometa onto the horse with one hand, seating the smaller princess in front.

Cometa gives a little ‘eep’ at Adora’s overt display of strength.

The horse jumps out of the trench and sets into a gallop on the lip of the trench.

“All right,” Glimmer says, “let’s go see what the Horde has in store for us.”

Netossa throws a tether into the air, Glimmer blinks into the air instead of taking off. Spinnerella just rises into the air, flight as natural to her as walking.

* * *

“Cometa, I need something from you,” Adora says, as they gallop up the trench.

“What?”

“I think you have by far the greatest potential to disable enemy tanks. The revolvers you’re carrying, they use percussion caps, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you trigger them with your power?”

Cometa reaches for her satchel, and a cap leaps out of it into her gloved hand. There, it gives a small pop, with a flash of flame.

“Excellent. Do you know how Horde cartridge ammunition works?”

* * *

Glimmer feels the periodic rumble of distant artillery volleys. Pinpricks of orange flashes dot the dark no-man’s land.

Netossa glides beside her on a wingsuit of tether weave. She even wears a set of goggles of leather, tin, and thick glass.

Spinnerella doesn’t even bother with giving the impression of flying like a bird. She flies forward, in an upright pose, her hair not even waving in the wind.

Glimmer directs them to a landing, within walking distance of where the Horde forces will meet the forward trench.

“I knew the first attack was too easy,” Netossa complains when they have solid ground under their feet. “Whatever the commanders over on the other side are thinking, they don’t give a shit about their men.”

“I agree,” Glimmer says. “You don’t jump into a trench. You fill it with grenades until everything in it is dead.”

“Let’s get to cover,” Spinnerella says. “See what we’re up against.”

“See, in general,” Netossa says. “Does either of you two magic ladies have some sorcery that can light up the battlefield?”

“What I don’t understand is how you’re _from_ Mystacor, but _can’t cast,_ ” Glimmer jabs back.

They hide out in a down trench a few hundred yards north of the northern-most Horde forces Spinnerella saw. Adora’s image intensification might be vastly more capable, but there are spells that lets one see in the dark of night, and Spinnerella knows one of the least capable of them. She has good dark vision from nature’s hand as well.

(Glimmer just got _uncomfortably_ close to the hover tank regiment with a literal light spell, and blinked away before anyone could level a machine gun at her.)

The tension is thick enough to cut with a spoon. The order is moving down the lines, and reserve troops are amassing from the north and south, to bolster the line here.

Howitzer crews four trenches over send another volley of shells sailing into the dark sky and down in the field.

“They don’t have any infantry support that I can see,” Spinnerella says. “But there are some tanks there that we haven’t seen before. Bigger ones, without a cannon.”

“We could use Adora right now,” Glimmer mutters, “she’d know.”

Then the first enemy tank reaches firing distance, and rather than opening with machine guns or cannons, the night is lit up by a stream of orange light.

“Liquid fire,” Glimmer says.

A stream of napalm arcs neatly through the air and cascades over the lip of the trench and into it, dousing a squad of Brightmoon soldiers underneath.

No sooner than the first screams of agony are heard, another cascade of fire rains down over a different part of the trench, thankfully hitting nobody, but cutting off passage, trapping the men between the two conflagrations.

Then bad turns worse, as a grenadier’s satchel of grenades comes into contact with the burning liquid — and though proofed against fire, the jellied gasoline penetrates the canvas and openings. The explosions tear through the burning men, cutting their suffering short.

Glimmer witnesses the carnage and turns to Netossa and Spinnerella. “We need fire control, and we need to take those tanks out as fast as possible or this is going to turn into a disaster.”

“There’s hundreds,” Spinnerella protests.

“We _have_ to. Spinny, you can put out fires; when they shoot, try to blow the liquid fire back. Netossa, do what you can to slow their advance. I’ll take care of the crews.”

* * *

“There!” Adora yells, pointing over Cometa’s shoulder, out into the field.

“I feel them!”

Cometa reaches out, and concentrates.

She feels the dense steel hulls, lighter to allow the tank to float. She feels a distortion of her power in the bottom part of the crafts, where the hover system sits, she feels the crew quarters, and the main canon.

She feels the brass cartridges inside. The big ones, attached to flimsy metal rails in threes. She feels the belts for the machine guns. She feels the small ones in the sidearms. She feels the little tin blasting caps.

She crushes all of them.

The tank is rocked by multiple explosions, gouts of smoke and sparks rushing upwards into the sky through the cupolas.

“Off we go!” She-Ra grabs Cometa around the waist, and the mount disappears beneath them. They land hard, and immediately hop into the trench. It’s a drop, especially in armor, but they both make it unhurt.

“Remember!” Adora says. “As little as possible —” she turns “— Sergeant!”

A sergeant, middle aged human woman with northern features, spring to attention. “Ma’am?”

“You and your squad are to be Princess Cometa’s security detail.”

“What are you going to do?” Cometa asks.

“Draw attention away from you. I’m flashy, you’re not, and you are way more dangerous than I.”

She-Ra pats Cometa on the shoulder. “Stay low, work fast, hit them where it hurts.”

Then she walks away, stopping to ask a soldier for his dark cloak to cover her white armor, before disappearing in the mass of men filling the trench.

The first of the hover tanks glides over the trench, throwing a strong gust out to both sides, knocking men over underneath it. The next one to pass fires off a salvo of machine gun fire into the trench away from Cometa’s position. Shields go up, but a few men go down.

“Your highness, get some cover!” the Sergeant says.

That brings Cometa out of her reverie, and she reaches out with her power.

In one, she crushes the primers of two clips of cannon ammo. In the other, she goes for the sidearms, on the crews’ hips. Hard to say which is more strenuous, given the differing distances.

She turns up a down trench. “You, give me a boost so I can see,” she orders a burly soldier. He leans against the wall, and she steps into his folded palms.

Up over the edge, she sees, the two tanks. One is billowing smoke, careening, hover system failing. The other is coasting, stopping.

Cometa hops down. “You, keep an eye on the intact tank up there. It may need a charge.”

More tanks are pouring in. “Sergeant, we need to move inwards, I need to get to the second trench line, fast!” Cometa says. She reaches out, feeling another tank draw close, and reaches for its magazine. Another series of dulled explosions, the hull ringing hot to her Runestone-given sense.

Then they start running, the Sergeant muscling the standing soldiers away in front, and Cometa taking pot-shots at passing tanks.

* * *

Adora reaches a mostly abandoned up trench, and turns, running up it. One of the best things about She-Ra is just how fast she can run. About half-way to the next trench line, she leaps out of the trench in one vault, and dives to the ground.

Under image intensification, she sees two tanks— no, three, four, five already taken care of by Cometa, but more are still coming in. Some have already passed — another tank blows up, but they aren’t stopping.

Cometa won’t reach the leading ones in time.

Adora gets up to kneeling, risking detection, and conjures a four-tube missile launcher. Through the optic she chooses four targets, and with a squeeze of the trigger, sends all four missiles screaming into the night, briefly illuminating her with their back-blast and smokeless exhaust.

She already has her shield out when someone opens fire at her.

Crouching behind it, she switches to a tripod-mounted launcher, and angles it roughly in the direction of the tank that has her pinned. It launches, and shortly after the machine gun salvo terminates in an explosion.

Adora hops back into the trench, and runs a hundred yards further inwards, there she grabs a fallen ladder and sets it against the wall, climbing up, keeping in cover. There, she conjures a massive self-anchoring tripod of unusually low profile, upon which rests a massive repeating cannon.

The ladder is insufficient foothold, so Adora kicks her foot straight through a board in the trench wall, and then repeats it with her other foot.

She takes aim, and starts firing. Two-inch shells fly straight and true, two per tank. They spot her and return machine gun fire, but the shield on the gun protects her. One tank slows and turns to bring its cannon to bear, and Adora rewards it with a one-two, ripping through the light armor.

Then it starts. Staccato of explosions. Adora spares a moment to look, and sees tanks blasting their cupolas out one after the other.

She picks up the spade handles, and goes to blow another tank to pieces. The gun clicks. She reforms the magazine from empty to full.

Nothing happens.

She re-calls the gun, ordering it to turn into a bracelet.

Nothing.

A suppressor.

“ _Shit!_ ”


	13. Battle of the Ash Corridor, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: dismemberment, fatal gunshot injury

They go to work. Spinnerella evacuates the air around the fires in the trench with a wave of her hand, causing the flames to sputter in moments.

The next volley of liquid fire hits a wall of gale-force winds, erupting in huge plumes of flame, raining droplets onto the ground only a few dozen yards in front of the tanks.

More tanks are arriving within firing range by the minute, so that is not going to last.

Netossa activates something in her armor and fades from view into a shadow — as good as invisible in the night and flickering shadows from the fire. She jumps out of the trench on a tether embedded between the top boards of the trench wall.

She runs parallel to the fray, throwing full nets under the incoming tanks, gumming up their caterpillar treads beyond immediate remediation. When other tanks attempt to go around the stopped ones, she impedes those as well, creating a makeshift wall of disabled armor.

Glimmer blinks to the other side, from Netossa, and goes to work with her satchel of iron grenades, lighting them by conjured fire, and blinking them where they emphatically don’t belong.

Her stock of grenades runs low quickly; a satchel only holds eight. She blinks back to the trench to fetch another, and sees a worrying sight. The larger tanks without cannons, are stopping, and opening hatches in the back, from which Horde soldiers emerge.

She picks one of the personnel carriers that’s heading towards drop-off range, and blink her last two grenades inside it. Two dulled explosions sound, and five seconds later, she blinks _into_ it.

It is filled with acrid smoke and dead bodies. Within confined spaces, explosions are all the deadlier.

Eyes watering, Glimmer searches the soldiers, and quickly finds the grenadiers’ satchels. There’s four grenadiers in a squad of eight, and Glimmer grabs all of them. Twenty-four stick-bombs.

Glimmer blinks into the sky and starts methodically drawing bombs, pulling drawstrings, and disappearing them. With the stronger grenades, she only needs one per vehicle to secure a kill, and they are all so very close by.

* * *

Adora tries not to let on that she knows something is wrong. She turns around, and squints at the darkness. Someone is out there. Has to be. These suppressors don’t have unlimited range — at least according to Shadow Weaver — more like fifty yards. Close enough to shoot a big boxy sorcerous-electronic device with a handgun.

She draws her shield, and the anemic Horde army-issue handgun she’s still carrying for exactly this.

Then she runs. It hurts to leave the weapon behind, but she can’t carry the hundred fifty pound cannon and remain combat effective.

It’s the right choice to run in retrospect, because machine gun fire opens on her location as soon as she kicks off to the side.

She calls on the starlight, which thankfully answers, and throws the globe of radiance into the air, as a make-shift flare. There’s only hope that Cometa will see and come to her aid with her squad of soldiers.

“We’re under attack!” she yells to a small group of soldiers sitting in wait.

A grenade sails into the trench, landing among the men. Adora ducks behind her shield, while the soldiers dive for cover. The bomb goes off, and most of them are wounded.

Adora leaps over them, despite cries for help.

* * *

Glimmer sees blazing starlight on the horizon. “ _Shit._ ”

The Horde has wizened to their limited manpower, and have split their forces. Glimmer, Netossa, and Spinnerella have taken out a half-hundred tanks by well-placed grenades, and another hundred are immobile.

But another attack further south has split them. Glimmer can be in two places at once, but the other’s can’t.

She blinks away and swoops to Netossa. “ _Retreat, regroup!_ ” she yells in passing, then Blinks again to where Spinnerella is keeping the flame tanks from filling the front trench with fire. “ _Retreat, regroup!_ ” she repeats.

They return to the down trench up north.

“This is a _super bad time_ for a little group meeting!” Netossa all but yells.

“She-Ra is in trouble,” Glimmer says quietly.

They are all haggard and beat up. Spinnerella’s ears are ringing, the veins on Netossa’s neck glow blue, and Glimmer’s headache is mounting. They are dirty, tired, sore, and not one of them has a head of hair that isn’t half soot by weight.

Netossa sighs.

“She has Cometa with her,” Spinnerella says.

“Spinny, we have to let her go,” Netossa says.

“We _need_ her here or it all goes to shit!” Spinnerella says.

“If I sent up a distress signal, would you stay where you were to win the battle, or come to me even if we lost?” Netossa says.

Spinnerella bites her lip. “You’re right.” She turns to Glimmer. “Go. We’ve got this.”

* * *

“She-Ra is in trouble,” Cometa says to the Sergeant, seeing the starlight bauble in the sky.

“What about the tanks, your highness?”

“I— We have to help her. If She-Ra falls— She’s the keystone of the whole Alliance, it would devastate the troops,” Cometa says.

The Sergeant looks at her for a beat. “Yes, ma’am,” she says.

Cometa hops up on the ladder one last time, and with a sweep of her hand destroys another six tanks.

Then they run in direction of She-Ra’s distress beacon, and turn a corner down an up trench. The trench is lined with the dead, Brightmoon soldiers gunned down and blown up.

“Proceed with caution,” the Sergeant says.

They step over the bodies and continue. The scene of carnage repeats itself beyond the next kink in the trench.

* * *

Adora runs. There’s sounds of machine gun fire in the distance, and the occasional boom of an anti-tank charge going off. The staccato serial explosions of Cometa disabling Tanks have ceased, and Adora hopes with every fiber of her being that they haven’t gotten to her.

Every time she comes upon backup, it has already been decimated. Dugouts bombed, squads killed. Salvos of fire impact around her, fired by indistinct figures up in the open. The sixth time she finds a squad of dead soldiers, it becomes clear that whoever is hunting her has made sure that backup isn’t coming. How did she miss the sounds of battle in the trench just a hundred yards her?

Her own cannon fire is the obvious culprit.

She stops running, and calms herself.

She hears the footsteps up on the grass, hears a light machine gun brought to bear, and as he begins firing, she leaps clean out of the trench, emptying her pistol at the gunner in mid-air.

Two figures next to the gunner react differently. One dives first for cover then realizing she’s out of ammo, dives for the gun. Adora throws her shield with terrifying force, her shield hits him in the chest, and bounces back to her. The other runs off.

Adora runs to the two fallen, and scoops up the light machine gun, shooting the third with a three-shot burst.

Inspecting the soldier slowly dying of blunt force trauma at her feet, she finds him to have pockets full of curved magazines for the light machine gun she’s holding. The assistant gunner. She grabs and pockets two, and when reaching for the third hears: “ _Man down! She’s out!_ ” followed by a bullet whizzing over her.

Whoever’s after her are leading her to the front. She levels the light machine gun towards here she saw a muzzle-flash, and fires a short salvo, resting the unfurnished barrel jacket against her shield, before turning and running inwards, away from the front.

More gunfire comes her way.

A grenade sails in front of her, and she dives back into the trench, landing hard. Another salvo of fire comes down into the trench, forcing her to crouch behind her shield; another grenade lands in front of her.

The shield holds, but the shockwave feels like being kicked by a horse.

* * *

Cometa turns around a baffle in the trench, and comes upon two Horde soldiers standing in the trench.

They turn to face her, and she reaches to the cartridges in their holstered side-arms, setting all of them off at once. Fragments fly, as what is effectively small bombs goes off on each their thighs. Cometa is on top of them before they even fall over, and with her power behind it, drives her staff through the head of one and then the other.

The dark metal comes away slick with pink gore.

Someone hears it up on top of the trench, and a figure appears with a large firearm containing many cartridges. Cometa ignores it in favor of the grenade on his hip. He all but disintegrates in the resulting blast as she pokes the primer inside, smartly holding up her shield to deflect any bits and fragments.

“They’re up there!” she yells to the other soldiers. Then imbuing her armor with her power, she jumps out of the trench, feeling out the darkness with her power.

There’s nobody nearby, but someone must have heard the explosion.

There’s gunfire in the distance. She runs towards it. The Sergeant and her men comes running after.

* * *

Adora’s ears are ringing so bad she barely registers it.

“ _Hey, Adora._ ”

“Catra,” she shouts in what sounds to her as a mumble. She staggers to her feet, looking in one direction, then the other, and then crucially, up.

And there is Catra, flanked by a large fawn holding a light machine gun, and a lizardfolk woman holding a stick bomb. Adora’s captured one is non-functional: a fragment from the grenade hit the top-mounted magazine. She drops it.

“Loose the shield,” the fawn barks, leveling his gun on her.

Adora dives to the side, and he fires, missing her. She spins in the air and throws the shield. It hits him in the throat, but rather than bouncing back to her hand, Catra draws a massive revolver and shoots the shield in mid-air, knocking it off course.

The lizardfolk woman pulls the string, and throws the stick-bomb into the trench, a few yards from Adora, who can only run.

The blast knocks her off her feet.

* * *

Cometa finds She-Ra’s canon, left abandoned on top of the trench. Three Horde soldiers are investigating it, and she throws her staff through the chest of one of them. The grasp of her power falls away, so she draws her revolver and shoots the two others before they have time to draw their weapons.

She backtracks until her power returns and then feels out the fields behind the cannon. Someone is out there. She leaps out of the trench and circles around the two figures, coming up from the side.

Two figures are crouched next to a suppressor device, which while made of metal, resists her control.

“ _Hey!_ ” one of the two soldiers say, leaping to his feet.

The other growls, rising to his full height: a freakishly large lizardfolk man, who levels a light machine gun at her. Cometa commands the barrel of the gun to fold itself over like bending a bit of straw. He pulls the trigger, and the action explodes, sending the magazine flying.

“Step away,” Cometa says, brandishing her revolver.

Both of the soldiers see the sense in that, and step back from the bulky device. Not wishing to risk losing her powers, she shoots it twice.

* * *

Adora feels the connection being made, and immediately asks for a weapon. Nothing happens for a full second.

Catra drops into the trench.

And _then._

 _Then_ there’s a gun in her hand. And a grim smile on Adora’s face.

She levels it at the grenadier and shoots her in the head, sending red mist into the night.

Catra yells: “ _Suppressor!_ ”

Adora rolls to her feet and tackles Catra, grabbing her by the neck and slamming her against the trench wall. She puts the gun to Catra’s temple. “Call them off,” she barks.

Catra grins. “You won’t shoot.”

Adora pulls the gun from Catra’s temple, and strikes her in the face with the heel of the grip. Catra’s teeth clatter.

“ _Fuck you,_ ” she hisses.

Adora draws back again, but then Catra _moves._ Her hand leaves Adora’s arm, and she pulls up her jacket, drawing the snub-nose inside her waistband, whipping the small pistol around Adora’s shoulder and jams its muzzle into her gorget.

She pulls the trigger six times.

Adora feels She-Ra die.

* * *

Cometa comes upon the scene: Catra holding Adora’s human form by the collar with one hand, and holding an empty syringe in the other.

Cometa freezes.

Catra sees Cometa and drops Adora in the dirt. Adora writhes in pain.

Cometa levels her revolver at Catra, and shoots. Catra’s already dodging. Cometa pulls the trigger again, to a click. She drops it, draws the one on her other hip, and brings that to bear, shooting at Catra, while advancing

Catra scampers back and trench wall, taking cover.

Upon shooting the fifth shot, Cometa drops her other gun and rushes to Adora’s side.

Catra pops out of cover to shoot back only to have her revolver explode in her hand.

Cometa scoops Adora up, and runs off down the trench.

She stumbles and falls against the wall.

“I can walk!” Adora says.

Cometa lets her stand, supporting her under one arm, and they continue their retreat.

* * *

A full moon has come out, bathing the battlefield in dim light.

Glimmer flies as fast as she can, torn between blinking to get there faster, or preserving her strength to remain combat effective.

She passes over the hover tank column’s advance, and sees the figures moving towards the trench.

She gets there, and lands, hard.

The soldiers on the other side of the trench move to take up firing positions. One has his weapon blow up in his hands.

Glimmer waves her hand, and twelve little droplets of blood splash on the ground. Twelve soldiers fall over with bubbles in their bloodstream.

She sees movement out of the corner of her eye and brings her shield up just in time for a bullet to punch clean through it and ricochet off her helmet.

Glimmer blinks to the shooter, puts a hand on her gun arm, and blinks it _off_ below the elbow.

It is only when she screams that Glimmer recognizes the shooter as Catra, the one who abducted her at the ball.

Catra sinks to her knees, clutching the stump of her arm, and Glimmer draws back and kicks her in the face.

“Fuck you, Horde scum.”

Then she takes off, glides into the trench, and lands in from of Cometa supporting Adora. She puts a hand on both of their shoulders.

“Wait!” Adora says. “My weapon!”

Glimmer looks past them, spots the gun, and swaps the air in her hand for the gun on the ground. Then she blinks them all away.

* * *

Glimmer blinks them a full mile south and away from the front, into a clear space in the midst of a crowded trench.

“The Princesses!” someone says. “The General!” another says.

Glimmer wipes away a nose bleed, and leads them to a dug-out.

Cometa lets Adora sit down on a bunk.

Adora is a shaking wreck.

“She got me,” Adora says. “Catra.”

“What happened?” Glimmer asks.

“She killed She-Ra. And she gave me something in a syringe; I can’t command my weapon.”

“Suppression serum. That’s what they gave me too. Good news is we know you can heal that with starlight.”

Cometa stumbles.

Glimmer turns to her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just a little dizzy,” she says and takes the shield off her back.

In the light from the oil lamps, Glimmer spots a bullet hole in it. “Let me see you,” she says, rushing to Cometa’s side. There, on the back of the cuirass, is a hole.

Glimmer throws off her glove and sticks a pinky finger in the hole; it comes back wet with blood.

She turns towards the door and yells: “ _Medic!_ ”

“What?” Cometa asks.

“You’ve been shot.”

“I can’t feel anything.”

“That happens.”

Glimmer takes hold of Cometa’s armor and blinks it off. Her headache spikes sharply.

There’s a _lot_ of blood.

Adora’s up in an instant. “Get her down,” she says.

Glimmer eases Cometa down on a bunk.

“Oh yeah,” Cometa says. “I feel it now; there’s a bullet inside of me…”

Adora rakes the wound, and a squirt of blood comes out. “It’s hit an artery, she’s bleeding out,” she says.

“I can get it out for you if you want?” Cometa says.

“Whatever you do, don’t,” Adora says. “There’s a chance it’s plugging the hole, keeping you from bleeding out quicker.”

“Heal her!” Glimmer says.

Adora closes her eyes, and dips into the starlight. A faint glow comes to her hands.

She tries again, thinking of Glimmer, and Bow, and all the people—

_Catra’s grimace while she pulled the trigger._

“I… I can’t,” Adora says.

“ _That’s okay, Adora,_ ” Cometa says. “ _You’re She-Ra, you can do anything!_ ”

“Cometa!” Glimmer says. “Cometa, stay with me! Adora put pressure on the wound!”

Adora’s shaken from her stupor and puts her weight on Cometa’s wound.

Cometa cries out in pain.

* * *

Netossa collapses against the wall. Her heart hammers, and her veins burn with overuse of her power.

Spinnerella descends next to her, burns on her face, and charred spots on her armor.

“I guess this is it,” Netossa says.

“I can’t hear anything,” Spinnerella says.

Netossa takes her hand. “We should run.”

“I think we should run,” Spinnerella says. “Retreat, I mean.”

The tanks are going to plow their way all the way to the supply camps. Netossa hopes they are doing better up north. That they don’t have to deal with an inferno and an army.

Then there’s a light from above.

“Look!” Spinnerella says.

Netossa doesn’t. She knows what that is.

“Is that? Mystacor?”

Netossa squeezes her wife’s hand.

Then there’s a flash of lightning and a thunderclap. And another, and another, and another. Magical lightning from the sky, striking the tanks on advance and reducing each to smoldering wreckage.

Above them, the battle island of Mystacor glides over the battlefields languidly. And on the battle stations, hundreds of sorcerers working the siege spells. It is the smallest and most mobile of all Mystacor’s floating isles, and it is still a mountain, impossibly suspended in the sky.


	14. Battle of the Ash Corridor, Part Final

They did everything they could. Stop the bleeding, raise her legs; the medic even tried to clamp the artery with forceps. They cauterized the wound in desperation, but that just made the bleeding internal.

Adora sits there, holding Cometa’s cold hand.

_I’m cold, Adora… You know, I’ve had a crush on you since the Ball. Can you hold me? I don’t wanna— I don’t—_

Adora’s world has shrunk to a single point in space and time. Her hands are bloody. The smell of iron hangs heavy in the air.

“I left my shield out there,” Adora mutters. “ _Her_ shield.”

“We’ll go find it,” Glimmer says.

They sit there for a while.

“We’re in deep shit,” Glimmer says. “Her sisters might pull from the alliance.”

“At least—” Adora’s voice fails. “ _At least she went quick. A— And she wasn’t alone._ ” Tears fill her eyes. “ _Fuck,_ ” she hisses. “ _I fucked up._ ”

“No you didn’t. You didn’t _shoot_ her. That bitch Catra _did._ ”

“ _What?_ ”

Glimmer stands up and walks over to her grisly prize, discarded on the floor. The finger joints are locked, still holding onto the pistol. “I should have killed her on the spot. Instead I just…” Glimmer holds out Catra’s hand.

Adora vomits on the floor.

“Sorry,” Glimmer says sheepishly. She grabs a blanket and bundles up the dismembered hand.

She goes outside for an indeterminable amount of time, and returns with a stretcher. They lay Cometa on it, cover her up with a blanket, and puts her shield on top. It is emblazoned with the star of Candila, and adorned with the single fatal bullet hole.

Glimmer hands Adora a canteen of water.

Adora drinks greedily.

“We should get going,” Glimmer says. “They’re going to need this dugout for the wounded.”

“I— I don’t,” Adora manages.

“There’ll be time to grieve later.”

The canvas covering the door is pushed aside, and Netossa and Spinnerella step inside.

“Oh _no,_ ” Netossa says.

Spinnerella covers her mouth and holds on to her wife’s arm.

* * *

Lonnie finds her woozy from blood loss, but stable.

“Holy shit, Captain what happened to you?”

“The sparkly one.” Catra says.

Lonnie looks her over. The tourniquet is solidly done: Catra has undone her belt and used it to cut off the blood flow. The standard issue Horde army belt is a strip of thick canvas with a double-D ring buckle; cheaper than leather, and better for use in first aid.

“Did you cauterize this yourself?” Lonnie picks up the petrol lighter lying in the ash beside Catra, the one she uses to light her cheroots.

“Yeah, almost passed out from the pain.”

“Man, they killed all of us, didn’t they?”

“I think so. Jona didn’t make it, did he?”

“Something crushed his throat.”

“I owed him a beer.”

“We’ll be sure to pour one out for him.”

Lonnie stands and waves, and a pair of motorcycles draw near.

“So, total failure?”

“No, no,” Catra says. “I killed She-Ra, I think. And I’m pretty sure I nailed that Candilan Princess with an armor-piercing round; though I can’t be sure. I lost my shooting arm shortly afterwards.”

“You ‘think’ you killed She-Ra?”

“Emptied my snub-nose in her neck; poof, flash of light, and it was just Adora. I got her too, with a dose of ARW serum.”

“Lonnie?” Kyle calls out. “Is that Catra?”

“Yeah, she’s wounded but stable.”

Rogelio clears his throat. “I got a side car for you, Captain,” he rumbles.

Kyle is on the ground quickly, locates a ladder in the trench, hauls it up, and lays it across as a makeshift bridge.

“Can you stand?” Lonnie asks Catra.

Catra nods.

They get her up, and across, and into the side car without issue. They drive to the northeast, to where they crossed the front line trench by collapsing its sides with demolition explosives.

“Holy shit, _look!_ ” Lonnie exclaims from the sidecar on Kyle’s bike.

They look.

Out of a dense cloud to the west on the pre-dawn sky, comes an impossible sight: a levitating mountain. It ponderously glides down until its bottom almost scrapes the ash-covered ground. It is wide enough that the northern edge reaches their latitude, while the southern one almost reaches the orange glow of operation firebird to the south.

Then, it starts shooting lightning.

“Oh we are _fucked_ now,” Catra says. “Let’s _not_ stick around and find out what that is.”

They speed off over the uneven terrain, and reach the forward artillery in twenty minutes, and the headquarter camp after one full hour of driving. And the state they reach it in, is one of full mobilization.

Holding in at the field hospital, Lonnie helps Catra through the entrance, to find the nurses and doctors in the process of evacuating the patients.

“Hey, I need some medical attention,” Catra says irreverently.

The doctor is a young male fawn with half-moon glasses. “We’re in the middle of an evacuation, I—”

Catra holds up the stump.

“Oh,” he says, and rushes off, returning soon after with an emergency wound care kit. “Sit down.”

Catra does. “I’ve also lost some blood.”

“What’s the reason for evacuation?” Kyle asks.

“The Snowmen are attacking from the north. They waited for the big push, then hit the defensive perimeter to the north. What on Etheria happened to you, Captain?”

“Amputation, then field medicine.”

“Well done, too. The tourniquet would likely have saved your life alone, but the cauterization was prudent. Who did this?”

“I did,” Catra says. “With my lighter.”

The man’s eyes go wide. The stump is a mass of charred flesh. In the midst of it sits two dowels of bone; tibia and fibula, less charred than the rest. “I’ll give you something for the pain first.”

He injects her with a half-dose of morphine, then cleans the stump with antiseptic, before bandaging it with gauze. Last, he gives Catra an inoculation shot against tetanus, and a bottle of antibiotics.

“One each morning and evening until empty, change the bandages daily or when they get dirty. Get a professional to take a look at it two days from now. Let me see your nose.”

Catra leans forward obediently, and the doctor looks closely, and feels it gingerly. Catra winces despite the morphine. “This is broken. I’ll re-set it for you, but I don’t think you’ll need a splint.” With a quick manipulation, he re-sets the bone, and Catra groans in pain.

Then he takes her pulse and her blood pressure. “You’ve lost about two pints of blood. Drink plenty of water, and get some rest. Any questions?”

“Am I ever going to play the violin again?” Catra asks.

The doctor gives her a level glare. “Enjoy your trip back to Capital.”

The camp alarm goes off. They are under attack.

“Fuck,” Catra says. “Lonnie, get me a carbine.”

“Catra, you’re missing a _hand._ ”

“Do you think I took my rifle qualifications left-handed? It’s an order, soldier.”

“Captain, I really advise you against engaging in strenuous activity with that much blood loss,” the doctor says.

Catra stands up, and wobbles a little. “Yeah, yeah. I’m not going to jump into the fray, we’re making a fighting retreat.”

They head outside, and find a lot of soldiers running.

“So, what now?” Kyle asks.

Lonnie hands Catra a carbine.

“Uh… Let’s make sure Commandant — I mean Brigadier General Cobalt knows what’s happening.”

The other three exchange looks. “Captain,” Rogelio rumbles, “are you becoming sentimental?”

“Shut up,” Catra says, and starts walking towards the command tents, resting the carbine against her shoulder.

Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogelio follow, service pistols drawn and at the ready.

“ _Why the fuck are we not heading directly for the carpool?_ ” Kyle whispers.

“ _No idea,_ ” Rogelio rumbles back.

Gunfire begins sounding in the distance, but there’s no sign of the enemy by the time they reach Cobalt’s tent, as indicated by the sign in front. In the Horde army, every tent is equally drab, and every Horde soldier knows to read the signs.

“Hey, Brigadier General Cobalt!” Catra slurs, as they enter.

They find Cobalt putting on a helmet, and loading his carbine. “Captain. I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“Corporal Kyle, show the general how to operate a stripper clip,” Catra says. “General, while I appreciate your willingness to fight with your men, you should know there’s a Princess out there somewhere, with the Snows soldiers.”

Kyle offers his help, and Cobalt hands the rifle and stripper clip over. “A Princess?” He looks at Catra. “What happened to your arm, Captain?”

"A Princess. Listen; you were a good CO when I was a recruit, so I’m going to save your dumb ass from running out and getting yourself killed. Yes, there’s a princess! How the fuck else are they kicking our asses?!

“I just came back from watching five teenage girls destroy the better part of _all our armor_ by waving their hands at it. Just assume if the Alliance is winning, it’s because magic bullshit.”

Cobalt accepts the carbine back from Kyle, and thankfully observes all the rules of firearms safety. “I haven’t had a chance to read the reports yet. But if what you’re saying is true, then the mission was a failure.”

Catra gestures with her stump arm. “I mean, maybe. I managed to kill She-Ra. And I’m _pretty_ sure I hit the other one, from Candila? Look, we’re all in over our heads here. Hordak’s head musta been fulla shit when he declared war on everyone. We’re not ready. We need better tech to win this. Round up the other high-ranking officers, and remember to throw a promotion my way when we get back to Capital, yeah?”

Cobalt chews on it for a moment.

There’s an explosion in the distance.

“All right.”

* * *

It’s a two day trip back to Brightmoon.

Two days for Glimmer and Adora to stew.

Two days of having the hearse carrying Cometa’s magically preserved remains being just out the back window.

They inn-stay in Erelandia is uneventful.

_“Adora, you have to eat something.”_

_“Adora, try to get some sleep.”_

_“Adora, you’ve been staring at you hands for an hour.”_

_“Adora, you need to wash up.”_

“Adora, stop looking at the hearse,” Glimmer says.

“Why?” Adora asks, in a monotone.

“Because you’re dwelling on it.”

Adora turns to Glimmer. “I don’t understand how you can just be so brazen about it!”

Glimmer leans forward. “Adora, I was a Commandant at Elberon. There are good soldiers who went home in pine boxes because of orders I gave. Don’t dishonor Cometa by grieving her like it is your fault she’s dead. In my book she was a hero.”

Adora looks at Glimmer with a level gaze. “She’s dead because I couldn’t heal her.”

“Yeah, because of the serum Catra injected you with. Catra who also shot Cometa.”

Adora shakes her head. “No, the serum doesn’t affect starlight. It affects Runestones.”

Glimmer takes a moment to process that. “Run that by me again, then, your healing powers where unimpeded?”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck?! Your healing is powered by _love,_ Adora! I was _there!_ She _confessed_ to you?!”

Adora looks down. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Glimmer hammers her fist against the side of the cabin. “Oh no, _you_ started this, Adora. Cometa was my friend too. _Explain!_ ”

“It’s… It’s _hard,_ okay? It’s really hard to heal. I feel like I have to tear myself apart every time I do it.” Tears start running down Adora’s cheeks. "And I don’t exactly have a lot of love to draw on! The mean old witch who made my childhood a living hell is being _pampered for her cooperation!_ Everyone I thought were my once friends turned out to be _evil._ And I’m a fucking outcast — all the officers I teach see me as potential _traitor!_

“I have you, and Bow, and — fuck, I mean _your mom_ is more of a parent than _anyone_ in my life has ever been!”

She slumps. “It’s not enough.”

Glimmer reaches out and takes Adora’s hand, but Adora pulls away. “So… How did you heal me?”

“I thought about… About Catra.”

Glimmer freezes. “Wh— you’re saying… I don’t—”

“We grew up together, okay?! She’s like a sister to me; we used to look out for each other all the time, and I— I _have_ to believe there’s good in her, that she can change, because _she’s just like me._ And if— if she can’t…”

“Then you’ll have to kill her.”

Adora sniffles, and wipes her eyes. “And then she goes and _kills my friend,_ and I hope you can see how that makes me _conflicted._ ”

Glimmer leans back, closing her eyes. “So. For the time being, no healing.”

“And that means I can’t get rid of this serum she injected me with, like I did with you, which means this —” she taps the silver pistol in her hip holster “— is a paperweight. And She-Ra is _dead._ ”

She wipes her eyes again, and takes a deep breath. “So for the moment, I’m just me.”

Glimmer shrugs. “I could teach you some sorcery?”

Adora giggles a little.

It’s the first time Glimmer has seen her smile since the battle.

* * *

It’s surprising just how difficult it is to do a lot of things one-handed. Eating, for instance. Or filling a glass you intend to drink from. Or operating a phone.

Catra is thankful that she isn’t working with one of those new fancy ones with dials to press, but then again, this one has a hand-crank. She nestles the handset in between neck and shoulder, and cranks the handle.

“Operator, this is Specialist Captain Catra of the ninth Special Operations Group, can you get me a line to the Scientific Division Administration? … Thank you.”

She waits for the call to connect.

“Hello? Yeah, Specialist Captain Catra of the ninth Special Operations Group, I was hoping if you could tell me where I can reach the Chancellor? … Yes, I know it’s early. … Could you transfer me? … Thanks.”

Another wait.

“Hello? Advanced Manufacturing Division? … This is Specialist Captain Catra of the ninth Special Operations Group, is the Chancellor present? … I’ll hold.”

And she holds.

_“Captain Catra?”_

“Chancellor Hordak.”

_“How goes your deployment to the front?”_

“Have you gotten reports by telegram?”

_“I’ve been working through the night with Entrapta; how went the battle?”_

“You shouldn’t get these news from me, but we lost. I’ll spare you the strategic analysis, but the rebels have air support now, from a _flying mountain._ ”

_“… Unfortunate. We may have to step up the timetable.”_

“I’ve managed to render She-Ra combat incapable, though I don’t know for how long; and I’ve at least wounded the Candilan princess.”

_“At what cost?”_

“My entire platoon, more or less. And my left hand.” Catra looks at the bandaged stump.

_“Hm… Come back to Capital; I have a job for you… And Entrapta might have a new hand for you.”_

Catra pumps her right fist in triumph. “I’m already on my way,” she says.

* * *

Queen Angella is there to receive them with a full military honor guard.

They don’t stand at attention for Adora and Glimmer; the soldiers line up and present arms, in front of the hearse. Two women in gala uniforms and white velvet gloves fetch the transport coffin.

Adora and Glimmer disembark without fanfare. They are still dressed in travel clothes — befitting of royalty, yes, but not in particular _court_ royalty.

“This is going to cause a diplomatic incident,” the Queen says.

“Yeah,” Glimmer concurs.

“If you need me to do or say anything—” Adora says.

“It would be better if you don’t speak at all,” the Queen says.

Glimmer gives Adora’s hand a squeeze.

There is no time to unpack, rest, or decompress. The pallbearers and honor guard head directly for the waygate chamber. The Queen, Glimmer, Adora, and several court officials and high-ranking officers follow.

Angella touches the stone pillars to open the gate, and on the other side stands Princess Meteora. She is as tall and athletic as Cometa was, but where Cometa was lithe, Meteora is more powerful of stature, and her hair is trimmed close to the scalp. Her dress is plain, in the dark colors of mourning.

She doesn’t show her grief, if she has any.

The Candilan waygate is built from double-helical metal pillars; the chamber built of marble stone, and filled with guards in ornate armor armed with pollaxes.

There are no court officials, or military officers.

“This way,” Meteora says.

They’re led through the expansive Candilan Royal Palace, through marble corridors, to a throne room that is empty, save for a selection of doctors, undertakers, sorcerers, and religious officials.

There is no announcer.

On the throne sits Queen Peftasteri, the eldest. Shorter in stature, plumper in figure, and with blond hair contrasting her dark skin. She is wearing an elaborate cuirass over a gown. Her crown is a spiky red crystal.

“Queen Angella,” she greets. “For what do you come to my kingdom?”

“Queen Peftasteri,” Angella answers in kind. “I come with tidings in this dark hour, and with counsel.”

“You have come to explain to me why my sister is dead.”

Angella bows her head.

Adora steps forward. “Cometa died in saving me, from capture and a fate worse than death. She succumbed to her wounds in the aftermath, I would like to say it was in the aftermath of the battle, but alas; many men died for the loss of her strength in the hour of need.”

She falls to one knee. "She— her death was swift, and painless, and she did not die alone. I was with her, as was Princess Glimmer.

“Her last words were—”

“Silence,” Queen Peftasteri says. “That is quite enough. Stand.”

Adora obeys.

“Tell me why you, She-Ra, failed to save her life.”

“She-Ra is dead. Perhaps only for the time being. Perhaps forever. I do not know,” Adora says. “Even the defender of Etheria is not invincible.”

Queen Angella steps forward. “I would like to amend this grim news: despite incurring heavy losses, the Horde armies are retreating from the Ash Corridor. Their armored carriages and flying machines have wrecked themselves upon the bulwark of the Alliance. Mystacor has mobilized, and a flanking force from Snows, led by Princess Frosta has pushed them south. The naval situation is still a stalemate, but the blockade of the Middle Sea is holding.”

“You’re saying Candila should mobilize and march on Dryl,” Queen Peftasteri says.

“Indeed, this summer would be an opportune time to do so.”

“This is not the time for discussing such matters. For now, my house needs time to grieve this loss.” Peftasteri reclines in her throne. “Angella. Cousin. We’ll hold the funeral in a week's time; see to it that Brightmoon sends friends and sincere mourners.”


	15. Worth, Sacrifice

The service is held in the courtyard of the Candilan Royal Palace. Peftasteri gives a speech, then Queen Angella. About Cometa’s bravery in battle, her instrumental role in the hard won victory.

The Priesthood of Steel, Candila’s local metallurgical animist church, performs the last rites, and Cometa is put to rest in the catacombs, alongside her ancestors.

Adora has dressed for the occasion, in white battledress, and with a diadem that looks like the one she wore as She-Ra. After the pallbearers set the coffin in its place in the crypt, she goes up wordlessly, and sets She-Ra’s shield against the pedestal to the side.

Then they seal it with a slab of marble, and the funeral procession leaves the underground.

* * *

Bow is there when they get back, waiting outside Glimmer’s suite. He’s smartly dressed, as usual when in the palace in the coat of the ranger uniform, freshly cleaned, press-folded, casually thrown open, over tucked shirt and slacks. The ranger corps plainly doesn’t have gala uniforms; much to his chagrin.

Glimmer runs to him, leaping and then gliding into a bear hug. Bow steps aside to catch her and turn it into a spin. “Bow! Oh, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”

“Glimmer, I leave for the woods for two weeks and suddenly you have wings!” he says, and laughs.

“Hey Bow,” Adora says. “Good to see you.”

Bow comes over to her. “You look like you need a hug more than anything,” he says, holding out his arms.

Adora pulls him into a hug. “Did you miss me that much?” he asks.

“We… We had a rough few days.”

Bow’s smile fades. “Who did we lose?”

“Princess Cometa,” Glimmer says. “Other than that, the bodies haven’t been counted yet.”

“She-Ra,” Adora adds, downcast. “We lost She-Ra.”

“Shit. And here I went and got promoted…” Bow says.

Adora looks alarmed. “Did— what’s her name — the big buff mothfolk captain?”

“Oh, no, no. She transferred home to Erelandia. We lost Mike. And Jeff — his brother — is on an extended leave of absence. So I’m Scout Captain now, by seniority.”

“I guess we have some catching up to do,” Glimmer says.

“Actually, there’s somewhere I need to go,” Adora says.

“Let’s take a field trip, then,” Bow suggests. “Talk on the way? Where to?”

“The Crystal Castle. I need to speak to Light Hope. About She-Ra.”

* * *

“Are you sure about this?” Lonnie asks. “Not breakfast first or anything?”

Catra gets out of the side-car. “Yeah. C’mon, it’ll be fun,” she says humorlessly.

Kyle and Rogelio follow as well, and they enter the Sorcery Division headquarters.

Catra heads directly past the receptionist to the open elevator, and takes them to the sixth floor of the building. There she goes to the archival department.

“Can I help you?” the librarian asks. A satyr woman, who looks like she’d rather nurse her morning coffee than help anyone right now.

“Yeah, I need a copy of the files on the ARW-PPE project.”

She groans, and heads into the rows and rows of filing cabinets. She returns with a manilla folder, and heads to the photo-copier, producing a sheaf of papers for Catra.

Catra hands it to Kyle, open, and pages through the documents inside, one-handed, locating the sheet she needs. “One more thing, could you get me the personnel records for one Deputy Director Mira in the ARW department?”

The librarian wanders off, and returns once more to make copies. Catra pages through those as well, held by Rogelio. An evil smile spreads on her face.

They head back to the elevator, and Catra takes them up a floor, down the square corridor, to an enchantment laboratory.

There she slams open the door with inhuman force, and strides in with quick paces, directly over to the workstation of a startled looking fawn woman.

“Deputy Director Mira?” Catra asks.

“Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Captain Catra; I’m the primary army liaison to the Sorcery Division.”

“Pleased to meet you ma’am, what can I help you with?” Mira says, confusion evident.

Catra digs into her jacket pocket and retrieves six little rusted discs of metal, slamming them down on the work-bench. Then she turns to Kyle and grabs the document. “This is an evaluation form for the ARW-PPE trial model Talisman set. Is this your handwriting?”

“It is?”

Catra reads aloud: “The current set of talismans passes preliminary integrity inspection but requires further testing both in-lab with Black Garnet-derivative magical effects, and subsequent field-testing under controlled circumstances. In any case the design requires additional entropy sinks on the order of a type-D reservoir of at least nineteen pounds in order to be functional at all.”

“Yes, I recall.”

“Might I then ask why you ticked the box ‘ready for field testing’ and left the ‘additional equipment’ field blank?”

“I— er… That must have been an error.”

Catra slams the paper down on the workbench.

She holds her left arm stump into Mira’s face. “ _Twenty-three soldiers are dead, Mira! Because you got sloppy with procedure. I lost my fucking shooting hand, because of a fucking clerical error!_ ” Catra shouts.

Mira cowers. “S— sorry, ma’am. I— it won’t happen again.”

“No. It will not.” Catra turns to Rogelio, and takes the page. “You’re working here as an alternative to facing the draft.”

Mira’s eyes go wide. “No, please; I can’t go in the military. I have a family!”

“Oh, but dear Mira, you should have thought of that before you got sloppy with your paperwork,” Catra says.

Mira falls to her knees. “Please, give me another chance, I’ll do anything!”

Catra shakes her head. “You’re _fired._ And that means you’re going into basic training. And in eight weeks, you’ll be an infantryman on the front. Let’s hope your replacement gets the ARW-PPE ready before you end up falling over dead because a Princess gave you the evil eye, yeah?”

Catra pats Mira on the head. Then she stands and looks around the room at the stunned researchers, sorcerers, and engineers. “This is a military operation, people. If you get sloppy, good soldiers are going to die.”

Then Catra turns and heads back to the elevator. “Now, we eat breakfast.”

* * *

The Advanced Manufacturing Division’s facilities lies in the industrial district, and takes up a tremendous amount of real-estate. On its grounds lie a dedicated foundry, a mid-sized chemical plant, a petroleum refinery, and an enormous motor pool. Most of it is squat brick factory buildings with corrugated steel roofs.

Catra enters building six, which is one of the virtually identical squat factory buildings.

“Hey, you can’t just— Catra?”

Scorpia comes up to her, wearing overalls, an undershirt, steel-toed boots, and extra rugged gloves. “I thought you were some rando just wandering in! Welcome back!” She scoops Catra up into a gentle hug. “I missed you Wildcat,” she says quietly.

Scorpia brushes her nose against Catra’s, causing her to blush despite herself,

Scorpia holds her out at arms’ length. “How was— Oh shit! Your hand! Oh no!”

Catra holds up the stump. “Yeah. We lost. I’ve been promoted back to Major, though.”

She got the letter during breakfast.

“And Kyle, Ro, and Lonnie?”

“They’re fine. Everyone else in my platoon are died, though.”

“Oh.”

“What have you been up to?”

Scorpia gestures to the factory floor. “Oh, I have been having a _blast._ Princess Entrapta has made me her _lab assistant!_ I mostly do heavy lifting —” she flexes, and for a moment Catra is awed the size of her guns “— but you’d be surprised how often brute force is needed.”

Scorpia grabs a crow-bar in passing. “See, we’re working on _big stuff_ here. Literally, and figuratively. Hey! Entrapta!”

Entrapta turns off her torch and raises her welding mask. “Hello Captain Catra! You’re missing a hand! Scorpia, could you pass me that bracket over there?”

Scorpia lets go of Catra’s shoulder, and darts off to lift a heavy section of steel girder. Catra wonders if maybe she’s had enhancement work done.

“So, what is this going to be when it’s done?” Catra asks.

“It’s the mounting brackets for the portal.”

“I thought we were missing all sorts of things?”

Scorpia waves over an intern, a lanky human boy in his mid teens. “Coffee?” she asks Catra. “Sure,” Catra replies. Scorpia holds up four fingers, and the intern takes her meaning.

“Oh yeah,” Scorpia continues, “Entrapta took a trip back to Castle Dryl and raided their vaults with a portable scanner, and was able to find all sorts of bits and pieces, including a _lot_ more data crystals, and there were tons of fabrication patterns on those. Hordak is over in building five, managing the ‘rep-fab’ project.”

“Rep-fab?”

“Self-replicating fabrication, they’re using the fabricators we have to make more fabricators. In a few months, we’ll have enough to outfit every factory in the Hordlands with them.”

Catra nods. “If we don’t lose the war before that.”

Entrapta comes over to them. “Coffee break!” she says cheerfully, throwing off her gloves, and welding mask on a nearby workbench.

“What happened to your hair?” Catra asks.

Entrapta’s hair is buzzed, with evident graying, and there are several studs of metal embedded in her skull. She’s wearing a sleek exoskeleton on her legs, and a complex-looking harness onto the back of which are attached four compliant many-jointed robotic tentacle-arms in semi-translucent green.

“Oh, I’m working on some improvements using First-Ones’ tech. I thought it was as good a time as any to get it laundered, and do some maintenance work on my spinal support brace. This exo-suit is one of the fabrication patterns we found, it’s somewhat stronger than what my hair was, so I’m thinking of modifying it for additional strength at the cost of dexterity, and doing the opposite for my hair.”

Catra blinks. “So, your hair is a wig, and it’s in the laundry, the suit is a possible upgrade.”

Entrapta shrugs. “More or less.”

“I can’t believe I actually understood that.”

The intern returns with a tray with four paper cups of coffee on it.

Catra and Scorpia both take one, Scorpia mutters a little ‘thank you’ to the intern. Entrapta picks up the cup with one of the robot hands, and spills a little in the process.

“Who’s the fourth one for?” Catra asks.

“That would be me.”

Catra turns to see Chancellor Hordak in a stained leather apron, over a lab coat, and a pair of gloves hanging from his belt.

“Sorry I’m not on time for our Coffee break dear, I had to prevent a workplace accident.” He takes the last cup, and waves off the intern.

Entrapta lifts herself on three of the robot arms, elevating her to Hordak’s eye-level, where she plants a little kiss on his cheek.

“Those arms are growing on you. Maybe I should get myself a pair.”

“The control helmet is a little bulky, we’d have to get you a set of the volition-bridging enhancements I use for my hair, and I’d have to build and tailor another adaptor circuit…”

Hordak puts his arm around Entrapta’s shoulders. “It was a hypothetical, my dear. We shouldn’t take too much time off the important projects.”

“Speaking of!” Entrapta says. “With the new passive detectors, I’ve picked up a _massive_ energy signature and triangulated it to the Northern Reach, I’m _fairly_ certain it is an incredibly high-output power source. If it is First-Ones’ tech — and I can’t see any way it shouldn’t be — then either it contains its own replicator pattern, or we can throw it in the pattern-scanner. Then we’ll just rep one, and we’ll have all the power we need!”

“I’d love to volunteer for a retrieval mission, but—” Catra holds up her left arm.

“Oh, this isn’t something we can just send anyone to get,” Entrapta says. “I’ll need to come along; it could be delicate.”

“Should I start packing your things?” Scorpia asks.

Entrapta spins on her robot arms, spilling coffee. “I am a _scientist!_ The only thin I’ll need in the Northern Reach is my _mii~nd!_ ” She lowers herself to the floor, and takes a sip of her half-empty cup. “And the big drill. And a fabricator. And one of the portable power sources. And— I should make a list.”

“Sounds like we’ll need a _ship!_ Maybe even an ice-breaker!” Scorpia says excitedly. “Oh, I _miss_ the sea!”

“Might I suggest,” Hordak says, “that you bring Catra along and build her a new hand on the way?”

“Scorpia,” Entrapta says. “Make sure the ship you get us has a fully-equipped surgical theater in the infirmary.”

“Yes ma’am.”

* * *

Bow, Adora, and Glimmer arrive at the Crystal Castle after noon, having ridden out from Brightmoon before dawn. They head inside, to the now familiar face of the gatekeeper.

“`Administrator detected: She-Ra. What is your query?`”

“I want to authorize new users of this facility,” Adora says.

“`Processing. New user: please identify yourself.`”

Adora nudges Glimmer.

“Princess Glimmer of Brightmoon,” Glimmer says.

“`User: Glimmer, title: Princess, country of origin: Brightmoon. Acknowledged. New user: please identify yourself.`”

“Bow,” Bow says.

“`User: Bow. Acknowledged. New user: please identify yourself.`”

“That’s all of them,” Adora says.

“`Acknowledged. What is your query?`”

“We need to see Light Hope.”

“`Unauthorized users. Grant temporary permission to veiw classified file Light Hope?`”

“Make it permanent.”

The elevator door opens.

“That was pretty painless, all things considered,” Bow says.

“Yeah,” Adora says. “Took _Catra_ of all people to figure that out.”

“Catra was here?” Glimmer asks.

“Yeah, she snuck in when I went here to find out how to call the starlight. We… Talked. And fought. And I think she stole some First-Ones’ tech on the way out.”

“Worrying,” Bow says.

They step into the elevator, and the doors close. The elevator starts moving.

“This could take a while.”

The elevator comes to a stop, and the doors open.

“… Or not.”

They step into a well-furnished lounge with walls of blue crystal.

“`Adora. Welcome back. Who are these people?`”

“Light Hope,” Adora says. “These are Princess Glimmer, and Scout Captain Bow, they have my utmost confidence.”

“`There are still things which are meant for you to hear and see alone. But discussion of general topics are acceptable.`”

Light Hope gestures to a table decked with glasses, a pitcher of water, and surrounded by ergonomic chairs. There’s a bouquet of pink flowers in a vase.

Adora takes a seat. “I sustained a lethal injury as She-Ra, and now I can’t transform.” She has tried.

“`That is to be expected. However, you are not the first She-Ra to recieve a mortal wound. In fact it is statistically unlikely that you would have gone on for this long without sustaining such a wound.`”

“It is?” Bow asks.

“`Yes. Being She-Ra is a dangerous occupation.`”

“It sounds like I’ll recover, eventually.”

“`Indeed. She-Ra can recover from virtually any injury, given time.`”

Adora frowns. “How soon can I expect to be back in action?”

“`Permission to access the Aegis of Power.`”

“The what?”

“`The Aegis of Power is the ancestral weapon of She-Ra. It is currently in the form of the pistol you are carrying on your hip.`”

Adora’s hand goes to the holster. “All right. Permission granted.”

“`Processing. Multiple wound channels into the thorax, perforating vital organs. Foreign bodies. Between two and four weeks of recovery should be enough.`”

“That’s good news!” Glimmer says. “She-Ra _isn’t_ dead.”

Adora looks away. “And what about me being unable to command the Aegis?”

“`The Aegis estimates that you will make a full recovery in time. It may take years.`”

Bow puts a hand on Adora’s shoulder.

She takes a deep breath. “It’s not so bad. She-Ra will still be able to use it. I’ll just be a lot less capable if they manage to defeat her. Thank you, Light Hope.”

“`Always a pleasure to be of service. Is there anything else I can help you with?`”

“You wouldn’t happen to know the location of Mara’s spacecraft, would you?” Bow asks.

“`No, I do not.`”

Glimmer stands. “I think we should go.”

* * *

From the Crystal Castle, they head south towards the Hidden Library.

“So, why did you ask about Mara’s spacecraft?” Adora asks.

“Because I’ve been tracking it,” Bow says. “I’ve been trying to piece together the sequence of events surrounding Mara. Actually, I think we should ask Light Hope more about that. Try to build a complete picture; it’s not a priority, but it might help solve some mysteries.”

“If I recall, Light Hope said she could use my help to repair some damaged systems to get better access to records from that time,” Adora adds.

“And you said there is something ‘off’ about her. That she can’t be trusted,” Glimmer says.

“I… I’m fairly certain I didn’t actually say that,” Adora counters.

“All we know is,” Bow continues, “that something cataclysmic happened one thousand years ago. Let’s exercise a proper critical reading of the source material available to us, and assume that everyone who was alive back then are at least in part suspect.”

“ _I_ was technically alive back then,” Adora says.

“And so was Razz, Mara, Light Hope, and a whole lot of other people,” Bow says. “Point is, we don’t know. So we should be cautious. And I’m pretty sure I found Mara’s spacecraft.”

* * *

They arrive at the Hidden Library, and Bow leads them in the front entrance, rather than around the side to the dorm and living area.

Inside, the main hall has been refurbished entirely. Gone are the display cases for artifacts, and even most of the book cases. It has all been packed away and put into storage.

Instead, it has been turned into a workshop floor. The centerpiece of the room is a large, ornate globe of Etheria, surrounded by arrangements of crystals and prisms, connected with fine chains, and encircled by complex concentric magical diagrams.

The whole place is busy, too. There’s three gentlemanly young satyrs in leather aprons and workshop coats in the blue-gold of Mystacor, there’s a minotaur lady in sagely robes, bearing the mark of the Brightmoon Order of Scholastics. And there’s George and Lance.

George is transcribing something off an artifact of First-Ones origin, Lance is sitting by a desk surrounded by books.

“Wow, this place is livelier than usual,” Glimmer says.

“I’ve never been in here,” Adora confesses.

“Yeah, so, a bit of back-story. When I was working on my lodestone trackers, I encountered something I didn’t understand, so I sent a letter to Mystacor. They thought what I had found was so significant that it was worthy of a full blown research grant. Things spiraled out from there and with the help of Mitt, Joon, and Gray over there —” Bow points to the satyrs, quietly discussing something; one of them waves back “— we managed to expand what I’ve been working on into this.”

“And what am I looking at?” Adora asks.

“This is a tracking spell that can locate every First-Ones’ artifact on Etheria. In theory. We’re still working on the kinks. But come look!”

Bow walks up to the globe, and with a gentle hand rotates the large elevation-contoured globe. He finds the Brightmoon Peninsula. “Here are we,” he says, tapping the Whispering Woods with a finger. Then he goes over to a complex control panel of knobs and dials. Coloured lights begin to dance over the surface of the globe and settle into stable points.

“Behold, the Runestones.”

Four little dots are visible on the Brightmoon peninsula alone: the Moonstone in Brightmoon proper, the Squallstone in Alwyn to the south-east, the Heartblossom right next to their location, and the Fractal Knot in Mystacor up north.

“Now see here,” Bow says and turns the globe. “That’s the Fright Zone, with the Black Garnet but south of it, on this island here, is another Runestone. One that isn’t recorded anywhere.”

“That’s Beast Island,” Adora notes. “That’s a Horde prison colony. Getting sent there is a thinly-veiled death sentence. Why is there a Runestone there?”

“I know, right?” Bow says. “There’s another one here,” he says and pans further east, to the great desert north of Dryl. “Here, that is the Crimson Wastes. And see? Another Runestone. This one has just the vaguest allusions to its existence in the historical record.”

“So we should go investigate?” Glimmer asks.

“No, no, this is just a demonstration. But freaky, right?” Bow says. “Here’s what I’ve actually been working on.” He goes back to the control panel and starts turning knobs. “I’ve been talking to Razz about Mara’s spacecraft. Supposedly it’s the size of a small castle, so I filtered for the largest energy signatures.”

There’s a handful of dots on the globe now. One is very clearly the Crystal castle.

“Now this one, that one, and that one —” Bow gestures to three of the dots “— we can rule out on account of corresponding to known First-Ones’ structures.”That leaves the one in the Northern Reaches, and the one in the Crimson Wastes. I’m almost certain one of those is Mara’s Spacecraft."

“So, what, we flip a coin?” Adora asks.

“At this point, yeah,” Bow says. “Pretty much.”

“Adora dearie, you should have said you were coming!”

Adora spins around _fast._ “Razz?!”

“Who else?” Razz says. “Come give your grandma a hug!”

Adora, sheepish and thoroughly confused, complies, and it is a wonderful hug; Razz stands almost as tall as Adora, back straight, hair well kept, and clothes neat. She’s even wearing a set of eye-glasses.

Adora looks at Bow, and mouths _what is going on?_

“Razz has been very helpful in deciphering our stash of First-Ones’ texts,” Bow says.

“Razz!” George calls out. “I need your eyes over here!”

“Ah, work, work,” Razz says, and pats Adora on the shoulder.

Adora looks after Razz, then to Bow, and to Glimmer. She turns to look at the globe. An intelligence asset if there ever was one.

“Let’s figure out next move,” she says.


	16. Hey Reader... We're not getting away with this, are we?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora searches for Mara's legacy.
> 
> Catra searches for Entrapta's requested components.
> 
> They clash in the north.
> 
> They clash in the desert.

#  [The Humility to Ask for Help](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26894197/chapters/65624524)

...

“Where is everybody?” Adora asks.

“Sleeping,” Bow notes. “Civilians, you know? My fathers are… Academics. Staying up late reading, you know.” As are all the other ones currently living in the dorms above the common room.

“Ah.”

Adora’s internal clock has long since been running exclusively on military time.

Bow is a ranger. One can easily imagine what inane proverb they have regarding their tendency to rise before the sun.

It is dark out, and the air is icy. They are both in shirt-sleeves and trousers, ready by sheer ingrained habit, for physical exercise.

“I miss running track,” Adora says.

“I’ll take you hiking later if you want to see some views?” Bow suggests. “Otherwise, it’s jump rope or nothing.”

Adora takes the jump rope from Bow. They skip until it hurts good, and then proceed with body-weight exercise. The upshot of not having track, is the tree climbing that Bow swears by, instead of push-ups and crunches — Adora enjoys body-weight exercise the same way she enjoys cod-liver oil: reluctantly.

Adora hops down from the low branches, and Bow is standing there, looking east. “Look at that sun rinse,” he says.

She does. It’s beautiful.

“Let’s go to the range,” he says.

“But I don’t arch— I don’t know how to bow and arrow.”

Bow smiles. “I know that. Which is why I pulled some strings — in your name… I may have forged that crows-feet scribble you call a signature. Come with.” He grabs his coat, and tosses Adora hers.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked _Out of Love and Desperation_ , please read on in the next installment in the epic fanfic series _World War Etheria_.


End file.
